The sun dips into the ocean’s shores,
dreaming of a maiden turned to beast
whose lantern guides the course of tired oars
past the horizon, on which Draco feasts.

She knows that the sea is a fickle one,
both the executioner and the judge.
It gives life to all that’s touched by the sun;
only those who spurn it receive its grudge.

It would be easy to sink into the tide,
enveloped by its murky, dark depth
while memories of meadows slowly slide
like grains of sand, swallowed with one’s last breath.

Though a gentle thing the ocean may be,
Its dark intentions wait to be set free.

The deity of fermented madness lounges upon his grapevine throne
Projecting an image of content ecstasy
But at the depths of his being, is all alone.

Says the sober man to his disciples: “You must be out of your mind”
“There’s beauty in insanity,” Answers the god of wine.

So he surrounds himself with the fruit of fools
Fermented toxicity seeping into his head
Until the jester inside him revolts and rules
And his mind is made of grapes instead.