DARK WINBERIGE 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 crows feast on the juice in haste.

The blood of grapes spills onto the ground,
A sweet pool of darkness in the night,
The crows swoop down with a cawing sound,
To drink the nectar of pure delight.

Then it's vines stretch out to create a throne
Beautifully made to have crows right at home
Round grapes glow red in rows with intention to blind
Dulcet melody heard leaving you entwined