You are the thrill of poison upon the page.
Both the page and the toxin you are
No threat to glance at,
Or study – limited by the eye.
The hush-hush of your ruffling pages
Does no more but to entice me
Such enticement – until I run my fingers down your spine.
The fleshy tips seek out their sustenance,
And find it playing amidst the looping, lulling letters.
Ah! But the letters nip at the tips
The hellish ink seems drawn to the pores,
And embeds itself between each spiraled peak and valley

I see it now
Your black ink stood out too harshly,
Against your ivory page.
Where now, will these poisoned words take you,
Now that they have left me so defeated,
Fingers curled tightly?