sjsprWriting

I see you,

dubiously,

reluctantly,

shamefully,

under the Vineyard.

Its textured, crisp thickets enveloping your

derelict and belligerent corpse.

Your neck is gaunt,

your voice wrung, swallowed by the crows,

their shrills biting at your doused countenance.

Your hands are ploughed into roots,

your heart churns erupting wastrels of skin;

outside of your body, no longer of your will.

Semblance devastated into pools of corrosion,

filtered with raw, potent wine;

bleached and bitter fermentation squirming within the reeking tendrils of death.

The Vineyard eclipses the serenity of your graveyard,

Desolate beyond your most vulnerable,

hapless,

joy.