Day 19

Red wine, soaring,
carries the roaring heat of
hope and expectation.
The red kite of the imagination
expansive as the sky
I thought you were strong,
a discerning hunter
preying with a glass-bead eye
this view of my elation from
Berkshire to the coast.
You feed upon the shattered notes
dead days, butchered hours.
Your power to lift will always swoop eventually
to scavenge upon the devastation of half-life.
If I remain in these open fields of
neon bars and glasses that like your wings
tempt sunlight into ruby
then all the years will one day lie ruined
throbbing veins, excited nerves
will break and become your carrion
as the stench of my requiem
becomes the banquet
you conquer, claim, devour.