absinthe

to someone I know.

I'll be your antidote, your poetry's quote
the blissful wine of no return.
I'll be your venom-sensation, risque elation,
the icefilled fire that will spark and burn
the graceful wreath of flames
the ineptitude of pain
the seeming grasp of roses' thorns
that brands me once again

I am the cure-all for the poisoned
the salacious song of the damned
I am the garden of Eden from whence
Eve fled the beautiful land