deepundergroundpoetry.com
DARK WINBERIGE OF TROUSSEAU
In the shadowed vineyard of Dark Trousseau,
Where winberige's hang heavy with a glum allure,
Each fruit ripe with blood that starts to flow,
As full moon rises, their essence pure.
The vines writhe as if in agony,
Their tendrils dark and twisted with despair,
Blood red grapes a sight so grim to see,
Their taste a poison that none can bear.
Whispering sounds that no one hears
Vultures standby to watch something die
Waiting for a human to eat its deadly tears
Pain of cries that troubles one's flesh inside
At full moon's peak, the grapes transform,
Into a perfect shape, a perfect taste,
A stygian essence in the sheen night warm….
Where winberige's hang heavy with a glum allure,
Each fruit ripe with blood that starts to flow,
As full moon rises, their essence pure.
The vines writhe as if in agony,
Their tendrils dark and twisted with despair,
Blood red grapes a sight so grim to see,
Their taste a poison that none can bear.
Whispering sounds that no one hears
Vultures standby to watch something die
Waiting for a human to eat its deadly tears
Pain of cries that troubles one's flesh inside
At full moon's peak, the grapes transform,
Into a perfect shape, a perfect taste,
A stygian essence in the sheen night warm….
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