Sip wine. One hand,
hold hope loosely in the other.
Stranger to self,
master to none.
Do they have a term for one who suffers a great deal;
but knows not its nature anymore;
hears not when It calls on his heart to tear itself out?
Sip wine. One gulp,
throw wind to shame with the other.
Does space pierce the eternal longing for a rest no longer coming?
Pieces he has become.
In escape to the addiction,
the light prickles,
The Beauty in strife fades with the moon.
Does the collective remember to mourn,
For a single soul so torn,
Or does the party assemble to forget?
Sip wine. One draw
Enchantments of a life,
drawn to futures and presents,
to goodbyes and understandings.
Do they have a name,
for the feeling of being in the body of another
and staring back at the placeholder that is mortal?
When love is let go,
When it’s too soft to fumble,
Right and wrong interweave.
Echoes and ashes,
Ring from ear to no end.
Is there a definition?
Sip wine. One spill.
Is wine a soother,
or is wine a slayer?