Potfuls of wine

A Poem by Hyphenated

What went bad

Who went mad

Life's a poisonous repetitious bore,

haunted

by the nostalgic ghosts of past,

tearing my flesh apart each night

drinking my blood poisoned with

memories,

blowing into my ear

all the lies and truths

of a life long lived.

I cannot wake from this nightmare

when my eyes are shut tight.

My lashes glued with some

sticky incantation to the skin.

Open them!

You say.

I cannot.

How can I?

The devils waiting to pour wine into them

I see them waiting at my doorstep

With potfuls of wine.

"To celebrate the dead" they say.

I feel my lungs shiver

inside my flesh I feel

a fire blazing. An iceberg freezing.

Take me. No! Leave me.

I want to yell at them.

I cannot, I fear.

They have potfuls of wine,

to celebrate the dead.