I sit upon a throne of wine glasses
That bobs, a cork, through seas of sweet Merlot;
And as I sail, the ghost of time passes
Right by my purple’d lips as on I go.
The bottom of the bottle’s an anchor
That sinks me to a dreadful, drunkless muck;
When ruby’s devoid, in flushes rancor
That grips me when there’s nigh a drop to suck.
So please, my sweet and sleepy grape-born juice,
I’ll write to thee, much like the odes of Horace,
Until thou snip my dry lethargy loose
And wrap me in thy silken, velvet chorus.
And not again ’till then shall I feel fine
When I doth fill myself with thee, red wine.
When wind first kissed thy golden fields of grass,
It touched thine silken hair in such a way
Thou danced, a tempest, a storm through mountain pass,
That Colorado, without thee, would decay.
Thou art a statue, a sculpture of pain –
Alas, those fields of grass are also such
A pillow ‘pon which I can rest my brain
When all the weary world befalls too much.
Thou art a whirlwind, wrapped within thyself,
And such a sight as thee should ne’er be named
For that would cheapen thy ethereal wealth,
The treasure for which I wish I had remained.
Regret and love together so collide
When think I of those fields in which thou Hyde.
A morning rose, through night, so steeped in dew
Has with a gentle kiss awoken me,
And with a breathless touch of vine, right through
My pale white skin, full stained a deep ruby.
A rich and bleeding red like maple leaves
Upon retreat of summer into fall,
Such naked burgundy like scraped babe’s knees
Which scamper home to comfort ‘pon Ma’s call.
Although, this rose of which I write e’er morn
Has splendor so much more than single hue,
For ‘twas this Rose, to water, I was born,
In hopes that thee may see its paintings, too.
As from my skin, through fingertips and pen
Like stream through glen, flows poems, again, again.
The world, I would let come to fiery end
So long as I, with thee, forever’d be.
I’d ride the molten rivers through each bend,
Reside within eternal agony.
For not even that brimstone’s harsh burning
On measures of pain, could ever compare
To this blood-freezing cold of my yearning,
Frigid winter without thy Autumn hair.
And as the fluid flame would rise from low,
So high would I hold thee with all my might
Until entrapped by that Hellfire glow
Illuminates you as my final sight.
And such a death, it would be so well spent
If I could just hold thee for that mere moment.
The whole of me within a vice-grip stuck,
Like hand of mine betwixt her thighs, I felt.
‘Tis hard for me to believe that my luck
To my free hand a Queen of Hearts has dealt.
Perhaps it is the gamblers tendency
To ramble on when he fancies his cards;
To stay out late when night shows clemency,
Use naked hands to sweep up broken shards.
As a gambler, I have spent every last dime
To win a pair of branches flesh like those.
And I’ve exhausted almost all my time,
Have stripped my back to bare and sold my clothes.
Now from my empty pocket rises the sun
And finally, a set of legs I’ve won.
Wearily slept I, wrapped in my hammock
Until awoken by the swaying sea.
And then, Sweet Dawn, from high panoramic
On that wonderful day, shone down on me.
She strode with confidence through a small crack
‘Twasn’t wider than her brilliant smile.
With such a grace I’d chase through Hell and back
Then further to final uncharted mile.
And though our numbered moments tick away,
Each tock a splash of ocean’s fleeting time,
Sweet Dawn’s soft light refracted through the spray
And brought voice to florescent pantomime.
Such melodious tunes could ne’er be written,
But I will try, as Dawn has me smitten.