Sunday Stew: Perfect Wine Wasted

by Isaac Robinson

I am like a perfect wine, nothing more.
Thick dark red, as blood.
I am drunk deeply, to the core.


Rare are the days I am enjoyed on the shore.
Yet, I am thrown away and stepped on as mud.
I am like a flawless white wine, nothing more.

My life is selfless, never a chore.
I am alone, unlike a flower bud.
I am drunk deeply, to the core.

Awful nights I am spit out, abruptly, a bore.
Hurt, lonely, and useless as a bomb dud.
I am a perfect wine, nothing more.

I am close to you, not vice versa, a closed door.
My emotions, abused, and used, a trapped flood.
I am drunk deeply, to the core.

The wine I am, useless today, thrown to the floor.
Wasted I lie down, defeated, free flowing blood.
I am like a perfect wine, nothing more.
I am drunk deeply to the core.

This poem is featured in Emerald Reflections

Featured Painting: Wine Spill by Maura Weller

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