The Wine Made Me Do It

Tears of joy

That toy with the flesh

And put to rest

The notion of

Who is blessed.

But such triumph of

Transformation

Transforms

My station of being.

Such station

Equates to reasoning

Far beyond the wrong

That has been inflicted by the

Ping-pong game of

Sing-song strings.

But the truth lies in front

Of a growth

That has been stunt

Ed.

It’s all attached

And there is no wrachet

That can pry it’s

Deadly claws from

The spine.

A lot of that discussion

Of growth

Sits in the pocket

Of certain precussion’s

Points of view.