The Glass Is Empty
The glass is empty
The wine is mine,
Grape grown to mould the mind
And destroy the soft sells of company
‘I like thee not’ it screams
And with those shouts
It doubts my dreams.
Those of yesterday, what can we say?
Are gone, all gone? Or remain,
Reliving daily pain?
Today’s, distraught on thought,
Take aim at future and the past
While tomorrow’s walk awry,
Shedding tears and causing cry
There is no why but being there
I sip the mull, mellowed in its mastery
To contemplate the passing mystery
And in the glass held truth,
Verity escapes,
The uncouth, dishevelled, rambling
Homeless as the mind of wine made clean
For all that is unseen,
Comes forth in bursts, staggering
To find the feet of victory
Or defeat in alchemy
The glass is empty, and there is no more.
Copyright © John Passant | Year Posted 2019
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