A cup of gold,
Lost amongst the mortals of this poor world,
Sweet aroma, burns the throat,
Takes me to the place,
Where memories die alone,
Take a sip, lay back your head,
Swallow slow and savour it,
Feel it coursing through your veins,
Close your eyes pretend you're dead,
Let the sensation steal your soul.
YOU ARE READING
Soft Curses of Angels - Volume 3 - Vaudevillian
PoetryThe "journey to middle age" part of my chronological anthology of bad poetry. Estimated age at time of writing 24-28. I both thank and apologise to any soul who takes the time to read these.
