A whisper of green, a delicate bloom,
Hemlock's sweet scent, a perfumed tomb.
Innocent petals, so fragile and white,
Concealing a darkness, a final night.
A bitter tang, on the tongue it lies,
A chilling embrace, as the body sighs.
Numbness creeps in, a slow, gentle freeze,
The world fades away, on a chilling breeze.
The limbs grow heavy, the senses grow dim,
A quiet surrender, to fate's cruel whim.
The heartbeats falter, a slowing drum,
As darkness descends, and senses go numb.
The mind still flickers, a fading light,
Aware of the ending, the endless night.
A philosophical question, a final jest,
"I drank what?" he asks, putting fate to the test.
I know it's a bit dark; morbid even. But it was meant in jest.
I remember this line from somewhere; I do not recall where. But it still strikes a humorous final call from a philosopher who was so adored.
