Spilt

Spilt
taste the red wine of my mistakes
a bittersweet drink
drunk with disaster
this alcoholic blood ferments in my veins
{cut free for intoxication}
every vessel and valve
is a tunnel, to my core
every vessel and valve
is a pipe, in my organ
the red and blue;
thy good and my evil
when will this cycle end?
I shudder
as I regurgitate the lyrics
to my own sad song
one painful, absurd letter at a time
the melody is provided by
the strummed, bloody chords of my
harp heart
my tartan flesh
my off-tune bagpipe
At least it won’t play at my
funeral.

(But then, you realise,
that there is a forest inside of
you:
A jungle of desires
It branches out into every bit
of you
It is your friend, your adversary
your journey
romance is blood red
hope is warm)