If wine is the tears of angels,
Every sweet scarlet drop -
Soothing to this soul of mine,
Yet scathing to the tongue;
Stripping me of real sensations,
Digging deeper into the pain points.
Every swirl stirs the fleeting thoughts,
Mellowing my weakened resolves,
Bittersweet memories coarse through blood,
And hands create bad poetry;
In a night when angels' tears drown,
Even the sweetest of sorrows,
Copyright © 2016 thearcticstar
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