The Last of the Wine

The Last of the Wine When the last of the wine has been poured, red and dry, and the gold wings of eagles, burnished by time, dismount the sky. When the velvet hush of eventide conquers the ebbing splendor of day and quick deep laughter, like hope unraveled, is wilted by time's decay. Her soft dark eyes will remind me of love's fragments gathered in bloom; a bouquet of passion's blossoms fragrantly spun on love's loom. And the silent desperate waiting to swallow up her honeyed breath will dwell in memory's corridor until the ardor yields to death. Stolen hours, like grains of sand, have been scattered through the years, venerated by the pain and glory of our intimacy--and our tears. The fervent rhythm of her body has engulfed me in its tide, interring my dread of failure where other restive fears reside. Tasting her where she loves me, milking the kisses from her lips, has infused my soul with purpose and inspired lyric fingertips. When the sweet magic is ended and night bird wings mount the sky, our adventure will have the flavor of aging wine, red and dry