The Red, White, or Rosé God
The first glass helps him sleep.
The second glass makes him dream.
The third glass turns his dreams
To nightmares, his loves to hates
And his every thought to a drop
Of slow-acting deep-burning poison.
He hates the glasses as viciously
As they love him; they hover close
To him, as moths to a flamethrower.
in vino veritas, but truth is not beauty;
He seeks beauty in fictions, half-truths
And elegantly crafted lies; his only
Truth is the bottom of the fourth glass.
He does not fear the reaper;
He fears the held-up mirror.
‘And if we sip the wine, we find dreams coming upon us / Out of the imminent night.’ – D.H. Lawrence, Grapes from Birds, Beasts and Flowers