Vineyard

The way you drip
Out of the bottle
Inspires a thirst
Like no other

Your colour calms
Even the maddest
Most malignant soul
To a slow sleep

And you taste like
The sweetest of fruit
Sent from the heavens
To reward man

But my wallet
Is dry as a drought
And my bank account
Emptier still

I’m not a drunk
Or so I protest
But I would kill for
A glass of red

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About Greg Moss

25 year old English and Media Graduate based in Manchester, UK. Contact me at: literatureandlethargy@gmail.com
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