Lost in a bacchanalian frenzy,
I stumble through vineyards
long forgotten by most,
but still tended by my fragile ego.
You are that dangerous fertile soil,
the ground upon which my tears fall
and from which spring the sour gatherings
that intoxicate me beyond all reason.
Drunk on wine that flows from your skin,
I slather myself with the harvest,
shudder in a confused ecstasy
as grape leaves wind themselves
around tired limbs.
I would resist you, if I could.
I would destroy you. Ye gods, I should.
Yet, season after season I return,
to taste your wares and bathe in acid.
How I wish that you were sweet,
that you still carried sugar in your veins.
But you are tainted by my salty tears,
forever sown asunder by the plague of
your betrayal. I should tear you limb from limb.
Copyright © 2010 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved