There is too much in this chalice for one to drink
This is the wine of sorts that becomes the meek
There are too little of those to share that are brass
This is the wine of sorts that make others weak
It holds old blood and more to pass
This is not a drink for a glass
For it would allow to see past it all the easier
As it makes your heart heavier than a funeral mass
One may have visions of love and the vipers that bite her
Ones mind may feel queasily lighter
The tastes is so foreign, but its not
The sweetness fades and the bitterness becomes mightier
Some for fates sake drink! Others I beg not.
The wine will nourish the soul though it feels as if its roots rot
You may hear falling sounds as the blouse rips
Violent images echo in your head as your thoughts clot.
It shall permanently stain your lips
As your values it solidly grips
As your neck tilts your head will increasingly pound
Faceless gurgling noises and the cracks of whips
The cup fills again as the earth rounds
One become more curious of silent sounds
Lines fade away as many fight not to think
Looking around to see blood drenched grounds
Dropping the ever flowing cup as one hits the brink
This is the wine of sorts made of the meek
This is the wine of sorts too thick for minds that are weak.
This blessing and curse, this most basic drink!
