Poison at work – a poem about agendas and politics

Poison is rarely good for the soul.

It courses through your veins,
As you guide it with prowess.
This wild beast, which is feral at your glance.

Is it boredom that leads you to provoke the embers of your toxicity?
Now so organic for you to feel the erotic burn on your lips,
when Eros is vapid.

The acrid taste in your mouth,
which slowly chips and burns away at those around you.
This shape shifting toxic vapour.

If only it was a liquid, bottled and emblazoned with crossed bones and a skull,
To placate and warn the unsuspecting.
To palate the venom, when they see your twisted contortions.

To sit calmly, meditation in my safe circle,
Then awoken with the odour of sulphur and a burn that seeps through your pinna.
The unbearable betrayal.

Poison is rarely good for the soul.


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