deepundergroundpoetry.com
the blush of autumn
the blush of autumn
will soon turn into
the scars of
winter
the vineyards are
cold and without
love or
mercy
how little time
we have
mayflies caught
in the eye of a
hurricane
even the sharpest
swords lose their
edge
temperament
loses its
heat,
and fuck Bacchus,
his wine is
overrated.
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