"the wine"
part of the { it's a leave-alone kind of love }




murder.
we pick flowers for no purpose
and look up to see love
(nonexistant)
as though something is waiting
up in some inverted sky of poppies
bold
simple
cups
of
sanguine
(drink up)
radiant fires aglow in her hair
anger? love? hate?
the simple questions we ask of ourselves as another
heart is hung at half mast
oh, the mournful vernal vespers,
we gather
by white lilies, sharing one another's breath
in silence
deep
alizarian violet
velvet
crimson
cold tearstained grass
on our backs
naked
lying in a field where we speak, sighing
another day, yes, dying
just one more glass implying
that we've already drunk too much
(sipsip)
sweetsharp taste
of grade to drape
over a lonely night
(without you)
is this on purpose,
this slow
soundless
torture..
you obviously do not remember me
from those nights we kissed
for if you wanted to kill me now
you would know
to force me
to drink
my own guilt
(i daresay far worse than poison, dear)
and now the pointsettias wilt
hushnow
(drink up)