I grasp the nectar,
and the glass feels
fragile against the
warmth.

I stare at Death,
and she only grins.
My mind screams
for many unanswered
questions.

But with hands in
pocket she can
only shrug.

I beg the question
again only to
see the pale
white melt against
the slinking lids.

And the pain
forces down,
and the wine
warms the soul.

And I'm stuck with lulling
head and a neck that
can only swing to and fro.

04/18/2010

Posted on 04/18/2010
Copyright © 2026 Christopher Shin