The Glass Is Empty

The glass is empty The wine is mine, Grape grown to mould the mind And destroy the soft sells of company ‘I like thee not’ it screams And with those shouts It doubts my dreams. Those of yesterday, what can we say? Are gone, all gone? Or remain, Reliving daily pain? Today’s, distraught on thought, Take aim at future and the past While tomorrow’s walk awry, Shedding tears and causing cry There is no why but being there I sip the mull, mellowed in its mastery To contemplate the passing mystery And in the glass held truth, Verity escapes, The uncouth, dishevelled, rambling Homeless as the mind of wine made clean For all that is unseen, Comes forth in bursts, staggering To find the feet of victory Or defeat in alchemy The glass is empty, and there is no more.