I felt the venom of the world last night

in my veins as I fled from the rainstorm,
dripping from the skies with venomous might,
as the waves swelled forth in a deadly swarm:
The dark tropics were at home in the haze,
and I felt lovely in the humid air;
As I sweat, I bled from the heart ablaze
with bile – which was thrilling, and I was there:
I was the scene, as the wave crested high,
and it swallowed the space as we scurried –
I guess fate was quenched, and I knew I'd die
when I crashed into the lights, unhurried:
I don't know where I stand as I write this –
Does the poison ever end? Is death bliss?
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