![]() Honey WineA Poem by Laz K.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. © 2024 Laz K.Reviews
|
Stats
91 Views
2 Reviews Added on June 25, 2024 Last Updated on June 25, 2024 Author |