It will pass,
I keep telling myself,
but it is an ocean in a goblet,
the wine is sorrow, without vignette.
Incisors,
fine steel having it’s way with the meat of you,
until you become one with it,
and take to your own ruin.
It has no end,
when you are ridden with guilt,
constantly burrowing,
ever the wallowing,
crying over the milk you’ve spilt.
W.E.
lonerloaner 