Monday, February 7, 2011


What strength we attach
to Bordeaux of wine,
personification via
comradely relief with
each sip, flavored
with the essence of resolve
we lack, sweetened upon lips
who whisper to both port
and God for mercy.

Sips of attack,
vengeance desired
for having submitted to
that which wine has no cure,
for tasting that which is
not of fruit nor notable
characteristic, but rather
just cool to taste
and quenched, if only
for the briefest time,
a guarded pallet.

What tainted manner
of consumption is this that
floods lips and tongue, yet
leaves both heart and throat
dry from lack of indulgence?

Does this vice for that which
is not spirit,
though ghost,
lust for the consumption
I can not refuse,
concerned not that I
lack no will to stop,
though sure that head
will hurt come dawn,
as heart did with dusk?

This is not taste
for what
I had then,
nor drink
of what
I thirst now for,
just stem
in hand
a sip

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