The red glass of wine a
cool thief of my time and
my will.

I ferment with these grapes for as long as it takes, each one is a brother to me.

Every bouquet has a balance they say, but
I can't balance when I've quaffed a few
and I do overbalance on balance
I do.

See how it goes around the houses to get to the gist
it's obvious this poetry's as ****** as a newt.

Absolution's in the wink and the pen and the ink's incidental, the poetry comes anyways.

I speak out to seek out the wisdom in words whether written or not, time on my mind and my hands are not idle, but idle I do, on balance I'm as balanced as you.

And to spot a mistake in any moment I break is to open a new can of germs,
I am fallible,
liable to overload and more liable as my circuits corrode and the road that I tred is the road where the dead make another break.

I take comfort in the red wine when the fine lines of time converge and merge into the scenery,
as comfortable as I can be
on balance.