All we want to hear about is love and Madness, wounds left in the mind Where what's taken for granted Was ripped out and scattered, just ash. Maybe just madness, then. Addicts Left shaking their cupped hands Trembling out aching, quaking desire Where stillness arrives with a kiss, Where confession pours crimson, A ****** of claret. Spilled into a glass, Sloshed across a tongue, breathing Bitter, barren, dry - washed down With another glass, until the flavor stains Teeth and tongue and lips. We are What we drink: water and blood. We are what we love: madness, confession. Does a ****** see in their subjects The viscid revel of their own scars?