the foggy glasses just sit there,
pestulant and conniving. those bastards,
they taunt. they laugh. they sing songs
that drive me into a fervor, with a tune
infectious to the point of sickness.
and those foggy glasses, they sit there,
wine poured through their crystal,
drenching the idyllic shine in nothing more
than the blood of grapes.

to health.

11/25/2003

Posted on 11/26/2003
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams