by Ann Neilson
Death is in my coffee,
and it tastes of a bittersweet desire.
The aroma of chaos infiltrates my solemn corner
enveloped by shadows of the morn.
Death has always been kind,
although not always voluntarily there
when needed most,
at hours when temptations arise
and the heart grows weary,
longing to feel poisonous fingers
brushing the hair from my cheek,
wipe the tear from my weak heart.