With your tyrian purple lanterns and fat gleaming berries, you mislead.
Little murderer, delicate prettiness is part of your ploy.
Deadly little thing, watching me from across the garden.
You beckon me, longing to induce twilight sleep.
The promise of a beautiful death lingers in your dark globules.
Those beady vigilant eyes penetrate my skin.
Your delirium infecting me from this considerable distance,
you long for my inevitable silence.
Dilate my pupils! Make me want you more!
Drag me in! I lust for your anaesthesia!
The numbness lying in your foliage is my sole desire.
You guarantee me it, knowing my need.
I require you to be truthful.
They say you wouldn’t betray a beautiful lady, but what of me?
You continue your examination of me, glaring through the green.
I don’t know when next you will strike.
Occasionally you fire a darting hallucination my way,
whilst wavering in the corner of my eye, monitoring my reactions.
Like the fates, you long to snip, snip away at my threads.
Macbeth’s tool – why did you force this fixation upon me?
I cannot turn my thoughts from you – your deathliness is all I see.
It’s all I seek. I cannot escape it.