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Death, Me, and the Wine Makes Three
by Christopher ShinI 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 © 2024 Christopher Shin
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by D. James McKee on 04/20/10 at 10:20 AM This is morbidly delicious! The title is to die for (so to speak), and the personification of the Wine equating it with Death ... superb.
“...the glass feels fragile against the warmth.” Thus, each life contains the seed of its own end, is in fact addicted to that End.
A dark and lovely work, well done!
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