may the juice of your fruit
bring me to death
cementing my grave
onto my lips, the filling it gives

unearthing a taste
only savored weeks apart
one God if they may take my soul
could have saved me had it’s heart been on patrol

with the hands lift my spirit
from the grave that has kept my bearings
secret, as intent to **** a royal for their fortuntes
as i am peasant, desperate for its gold

with its juice, i pray this sip
lay my head from its whiff  
there is no more life to give
all this pain makes what is left sick