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Rated: E · Poetry · Drama · #2166599
A sad drunkard memorizes.
The Rosy

Pour it down, reddish and swiftly,
like those passions, long have gone.
Fill it, friend, bitter and thrifty,
in sin, till the cries of dawn.
Drunkard, and lonely.
Clinking the one holy.
Fill me, with my laughter alone.

Pour the rosy and let us sip,
where my blood mixes with tears.
In ecstasy, smeared on this lip,
where merriness shied my fears.
Solid, shall be my grip.
No waste of a single drip.
Numbs my heart and so what it bears.

Leave me, O mate, to my sighing
How troublesome passion is.
Upon drunkenness, my relying,
for the ailing bosom's whims.
How a monk is doubting.
Solitude abiding.
Purgatory, within his sins.

Velvet, it settles in my glass,
showering my crimson heart.
To mend the gloom, from pass to pass,
and set this mind to depart.
Drunk by its shiny glance.
Set me to lose my stance.
Never, a love fiction has to start.
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