Masmouma Poem by Piccola Topo Gigio

Poison, he called me.
As I was becoming the thoughts in his brain,
Running through the blood feeding his veins,
Lodging myself in a plain,
He'd rather, I'd not be.

Poison, he said.
For having desired from me a devotion insatiable,
Wanting to subdue all that in me was indomitable,
He now found himself facing the allegorical,
Restless, in bed.

Poison, he repeated.
Because it couldn't be that he craved me so frantically,
Wishing for my face and gaze to be continuously,
Not understanding why it was me, so particularly,
He felt, cheated.

Poison, over and over again.
Sweet, little, good, beautiful and pure, poison.
My presence inside of him needed a reason.
As he hankered for forever, not only a season.
He spoke, as he was slain.