Cherry wine.

All those landscapes, Oh they seem like a Picasso.
Thoughts been hovering by the windows of my castle.
As I widely gaze upon the vineyards of El Paso.
Some fine lands, where many vices would hustle.
The trees, the leaves, they’re drunkenly green.
Yet, the grapes seem deeper than purple.
All these Men, to harvest would be keen
In a weak dance, oh so Acoustical.
And when their thirst is gone,
When their minds are not there,
When in red, their cheeks be drawn,
To have some sleep would be fair...
But sleep wouldn’t come, as the heads are dizzy.
Skulls would feel like drums, as the minds are busy.
In a delicious headache, made of dreams and cherry wine,
They would lazily lay there, believing everything is fine.
But nothing is, says the liver.
Agrees the spine, sending a shiver.
The core hurts, but is flooded and voiceless.
Against a foe, by the ages, made faceless.
And this foe would kill, this Enemy would thrive.
While the body, for healing would strive.
But no healing, in El Paso, or elsewhere.
As the slow Death, swims in chalices of silverware.
