Hold me now
The winter wine,
Cradle me in arms
Wound-marked with ageless pity
While daylight
Drains slowly by my gentle hand.

Winter wine,
To stain my lips
And ease the tender ache
Of your hand upon my brow;
The scent of red release,
The crystalline creation
Of self-destructive chemistry
Enough to make me whole
For an hour.

What is this poison,
Winter wine,
So that I become the connoisseur
Of bitter aftertaste?
The forgetful burn,
The numbing sense
Far too heavy to be artful,
Far too graceless to rest
Easy within my grasp.

Drinking slow
To burn my throat
And gently cut my tongue,
Quieting my request for more.
End the numb beauty
Of this silence
With a call for your voice,
Lost amidst the act of drowning,
Cold,

Face down beneath forgiving sleep.

Penned by my hand on the 5th of Lleian, in the year 198 MA.