Wine pours deep and plentiful
in the cellar of the devil,
worrying the coldness of the bottle.
Grasp its form and throttle
forth pensive ruby and deeper hues.
Ponder the trick, its final ruse
that sidles down the bloody fall
drags and hurls, cradle and all
to burst itself upon a stone.
Vital sin at last atone
in the dust.

Yet still
the wonder spreads,
pooling here in brooding threads
and scarlet robe upon the floor,
tapping on the open door.
In his eye wine turned to blood,
a promise made in stinking mud
of many years of life and joy, a heavy cost
to know the stillborn hope is lost.
The lie most bitter in his heart
as the fragments spin apart
and settle yet in separation
never spared their condemnation.

Must I see it tumble here?
Or am I blind and deaf to fear
and fact. Still see deliverance open armed
upon the throne of heaven calmed
of all the ancient writ of rage
immutable stand on crystal stage.
Must I taunt my fathers faith
and never let his grief be safe
upon the hearth and home
or yet the marrow of the bone?

Deny reflection of mortality
no entropic amnesty
where the good book lay by his bed
of course we found he was still dead.
The fragments ceased in pattering
each echo silent since the shattering
on even this auspicious day
the devils cellar must obey.