THE FIRST TO DIE
- Dark Poets Club
- Oct 6
- 1 min read
By Ismael Florentino
Hemlock
In your garden,
wine, figs, laughter.
My lips lingered on yours.
Your hand brushed mine.
A spark.
You poured the tea.
I stirred the air.
Hemlock.
Nice touch.
Oh, the irony.
I reached for your throat.
Fingers gripped,
then trembled.
Poison kissed first.
You smiled.
You win.
This time.