Sort of Wine
Crimson swirls in the water beneath
My dripping fingers.
It’s a funny thing
To watch
To realize that this is it
This is your lifestuff
Pouring out so arbitrarily.
A funny thing.
There is so much
Oceans it seems
As if it could never run dry.
Is there more
Than that?
Or are we just vessels for this running wine
Chalices of this scarlet nectar
To one day be drunk dry
And then
Tossed aside?
The taste of iron drips
And actually
It doesn’t taste so bad.
When it’s gone
And the cup is empty
And there is no more taste
Or smell, or color,
The water has run with the wine
There will be one question.
Was it drunk in full, or was it wasted?
