Phthartic

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 The fluid swirls

A concoction 

A perfect design by woman

It hisses as it stirs

No choice as to when it is to be consumed

Only the dread of knowing it’s coming

Components of one’s own design

Even though the end result is evident 

No one wants to be questioned as to why 

One lets the glass sit

As it seems all those around it are being emptied

No one blinks as they sip 

No one cares as they choke

No one sees the bodies of those who could not handle it

Why would they

“They’ve done it to themselves.”

But in reality

We have no choice but to gag on their own mix

Of the perfect poison

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