The Revelation of Vines

 

 

The bruised and battered grapes of the heart

Press a bitter wine to the lips

A quiet whisper of choice

 

Formula for the long lonely nights to pass

Mulling on every burning piquant

But still tasteless, droll

For the whip you lay upon yourself

 

And pressed you are

Into a decanted sorrow

As if the sweetness of tears could cleans your eyes

 

Their salt to wipe away your soul

 

Deep red for the season passed

On an ink of blood

Those parchments testimonials

Of you, your wounded self

 

And so it is

That we should lift a cup, so full of promise

Ere to taste the backwash of their ash

 

Were you collected and pressed

With the loving hands of tenderness

Or even now look from the tainted glass

And wonder, where you are

 

Are you left to speak with bitter lips

A wine

The world, should have tasted

 

And pressed you are

Into a decanted sorrow

As if the sweetness of tears could cleans your eyes

 

Their salt to wipe away your soul