A.R. Brixton - 508

With poisonous smoke,
She exhales, fire from a mouth –
That kissed, has been
Kissed, and through madness
Solitude, acted as magic
A placebo for the new love
And violence, violence of
The new days – the ones
That follow, ride along
Holding hands and fingers
Entwined, hope, for
It is as it should be,
Should it not, my careful
Mistress, with the poison
On lips, and lies in the still heat
And heart, mirrors and shadows.
Wholly me, evil yourself, for
If my lips are poison
Your words are opium.

A.R. Brixton

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/508/