Honey Wine

The ghost of the past is calling,

Beckoning from behind the veil that

Separates the living from the dead.

The tombstone of what we were

Has been gathering moss for years, and

Yet, thoughts of your soft hands 

Crush and press me for fresh tears.

Each drop is a grape, round and ripe,

Delicate, rare, tended to with much care.

I walk the hills as if under a spell, 

Slave to each curling, crawling vine 

Painted in the hue of your black hair.

I reap what I sowed, fill the barrels with wine

(A blood red, honey-sweet, deadly rite)

And I drink, drink, drink till you drown. 

Reviews

[Arundass TP]

Excellent writing. Enjoyed reading

[Betty Hermelee]

Walking among tombstones of a loved one bring back memories, even though it has grown with moss, and years have passed, those special moments that flash before you are sometimes haunting yet you still crave them, every detail of that dead person……” fresh tears…each drop is a grape”…..until there are barrels of sweet wine to drown oneself in
A barrel….lovely images engulf the piece
Warmly, B🌷