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.
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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.