The Last of the Wine
The Last of the Wine
When the last of the wine
has been poured, red and dry,
and the gold wings of eagles,
burnished by time, dismount the sky.
When the velvet hush of eventide
conquers the ebbing splendor of day
and quick deep laughter, like hope
unraveled, is wilted by time's decay.
Her soft dark eyes will remind me
of love's fragments gathered in bloom;
a bouquet of passion's blossoms
fragrantly spun on love's loom.
And the silent desperate waiting
to swallow up her honeyed breath
will dwell in memory's corridor
until the ardor yields to death.
Stolen hours, like grains of sand,
have been scattered through the years,
venerated by the pain and glory
of our intimacy--and our tears.
The fervent rhythm of her body
has engulfed me in its tide,
interring my dread of failure
where other restive fears reside.
Tasting her where she loves me,
milking the kisses from her lips,
has infused my soul with purpose
and inspired lyric fingertips.
When the sweet magic is ended
and night bird wings mount the sky,
our adventure will have the flavor
of aging wine, red and dry
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