Blood and Wine
‘Twas a stormy night when the rain fell in twos and threes
A gale wrote its November night acts and decrees,
The sound of a drop on the stone ridges of the wall
Slowly coalescing into shapes between the widened cracks,
And the empty bottles that smell of putrid alcohol
Are laid against the iron-wrought gate in wayward stacks.
He drinks, but there’s not a drop to remember a drought
He pours into clinking glasses to search for his way out,
And into the visions of the cemetery just past the gate
A corpse laid in earth reminds the world of days gone by,
Of times when people were wont to wipe clean their slate
When wells of tears were yet to flow before they ran dry.
Waving hairs whispered in the summer wind as she went,
The skeleton draped in flesh and skin not yet spent,
She caught a butterfly that landed on her light wrists,
Wrote its name and inked itself into her tingling nerves,
Crawled and fluttered its way up with fledgling twists
Flapping away its poison dust into the air as it swerved.
The butterflies don’t sing laments, ‘tis a well known fact
And the sound of dying wings always fades into the black
When autumn comes he remembers to buy an extra flask
Of the wine that they lovingly drunk like her spilt blood,
From the corners of his split lips like a crimson-clad mask
The liquid leaks out and fills the floor with a scarlet flood.
The vial of life empties itself, stains the carpet and the floor
The Persian rug comes alive and begs the drinker for more
As he is now swayed by the touch of nectar on his face
The bottle clatters onto his body with a high-pitched whine
A swift shard slits his naked throat with amazing grace
Forever mixing his escaping soul with the blood and wine.