Sour Drinks

She'll be the queen of my decrepit ridgeline, Her crown, heavy with my wasted want. Never knows best, a fault of design. Her tensions a dagger, a cunning divine, A soul-bleeder, god as a vaunt. She'll be the queen of my decrepit ridgeline. The arson of anger will never confine, For the plaid that’s been woven, I a gaunt Never knows best, a fault of design. I check the guest list for a name I can’t find, A ghost of a promise, a lingering taunt. She'll be the queen of my decrepit ridgeline. I hate sour drinks, but I chug it all in time— A golden apple; a jaunt. Never knows best, a fault in design. As the season passes, with its cruel incline, I swallow one more time; her shadows daunt. She'll be the queen of my decrepit ridgeline, But never knows best, a faulty design.