Abandonment and dejection,
A boy’s name,
Desired more times than death,
More times in death.
Fermented in a bar,
With enthusiastic gullet.
How great grapes so hallow,
Transform one so hollow.
Little passion ever seen,
Showed its face in torrents,
Bony, but bellowing,
Desperately hanging.
Man was no medicine,
Nor was a muffled moonlight,
Nor a yearned sensuality,
Nor the coveted wine.
Sailors bunched around a bonfire,
Salt kindles a foul smell,
Engineered hands built to slave,
Built to hold.
The joined act of lasting,
Of loving,
Of losing,
Of still holding.
–Kevin J Flors
Thanks for reading.
Photograph from Pexels
Plate of Soup 