A starved fruit
is that,
of the open mouthed end,
to a warm,
bottle of wine
slugging back,
the bitter
disgust.

Reaping benefits
like ergot
off rye.

Tumultuous temptations,
shouting out
the window;
"I'll do it, I'll do it,
******* it, I'll do it"

One last look
into
the soul-******* rim,
of a warm,
bottle of wine.

Swimming into
the sediment,
gravity of cement,
drowning.

"I'll do it, ******* it,
I'll do it"