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Sunday, 8 January 2017

[Poem] The Last Drop

The last drops of the ice wine,
They pierce, and no longer soothe.
Soon the empty wine glass,
Shall fall into debris.

The first drop was for you,
A toast, filled with hopes;
Masking the pain,
At our loss.

The second drop for memories,
And all the 'what-if's;
Of the passerbys,
Who could've been more.

The third drop for regrets,
Sweetening over raw spots;
Mellowing the senses,
Burying mental faithlessness.

The last drops are for myself,
Burning deep into the core;
Foraging battles without valour,
Losing them with no merits.

copyright ©  Winepoetess 2016

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