In the doorway he stood,
Uncertainty gripping his fingers
Like grappling hooks or gilded rope-knots
Or aspic filling the workshop.

As he tipped his hat,
The shadow sifted his eyes into purple,
But he did not shift his gaze
As arsenic bade farewell to alchemy.

01/02/2010

Author's Note: Poemuary entry #2.

Posted on 01/03/2010
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