No one writes poetry about happy days and sunshine days,
they write about when their minds were trapped in caves, those days that are now broken memories and hearts

Humans are as consistent as gravity,
They will always fall.

Proudly he handles the bottle, bellowing about her as if she were a person

She's not fine wine, she's aged wine.
kept in the dark; alone with her thoughts
low in the earth; like a corpse
and given all the time in the world to ferment; she's rotting

Her glass is smooth you see, and cool to the touch; like the pavement on which she fell
The curves are unique to every bottle; her carcass so pretty
And the deepest green you'll ever see on a bottle; like her eyes

I have preserved her so! To keep her how she should be!
that's how he wanted to see me

She has aged well, for almost 20 years you see.
still as young as ever

But this is a special occasion; they found me
Go fetch some glasses; I can hear them digging
And we'll celebrate her.

Crackling cancer, the glimmer of light
mixed with the fog
I see him beckoning, calling out in that morning smoke
He's waiting for me.

Am I in love or am I convincing myself?
I would be a fool to be either.

More fickle than the seasons
fragile like thawing ice

attached with a firm grip
clutching like a baby’s hand.

Desperate but never dangerous
susceptible yet not defenceless
acquiescent, though a fool.

They are the simpleton’s
that embrace counterfeit fables,
illusions of promise

And at the end
that makes them break

I pray for the day you crave my touch more than anything

And I will watch you wither in sorrow

As I have.