Ridge's Lit and Art Zine

The Devil's Quill

Nightshade

Henry Monk, Co-President

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She sticks in my mind an emotional thorn
It’s over, she’s gone, I know,
But she tangles my feelings and chokes my roots;
This cognitive weed will only grow

A pale silhouette stalking my dreams
Poisons my thoughts with fret;
I was always concerned with losing her
Long before that was an actual threat

Always comparable to a flower
But not of the sort of a succory,
Nothing so delicate, more a nightshade
Upright in a concrete slurry

Nightshade, that’s it,
Although our time was hardly perennial,
Always either an addictive tobacco
Or a belladonna with poison venial

Half the time tobacco
Addiction, down to an art
An ever present psychoactive
With a smoke that warmed my heart

Half the time belladonna
Which is foolish to say or think
Her toxicity fully imagined
By my paranoia’s malicious hoodwink

Why couldn’t I simply believe
That she actually cared about me?

I shielded myself from perceived poison
But forced only the cure to flee

It hurts now like an infected wound
And I pray these feelings will fade
But I don’t regret the time I spent
With that incredible girl, nightshade.

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Ridge's Lit and Art Zine
Nightshade