The demon has spilled the wine
In the young girl’s dream.
Blood, the passionate drink,
Has been thrown on the garden, stalled,
And finance took you up in its invisible arms,
So you would be invisible.
I am out of my league, trying to write on this.
I know poems. A tasteful illumination of an eager kiss.
What do I know of children, and their dreams?
Demon rhetoric, and its schemes?
And all I know of blood
Is the horror when it comes in a flood.
And I have seen gardens, walled,
And felt regrets. I should have called.
My girlfriend was a nice introvert. I should have let myself in,
When outside, finance was cavorting with sin.