even though I may be astutely dying on the vine.
I shall meander here
squeezing the last bitter remains of my Pinot Noir.Feeling sleepless –
with my head, beating unhinged fire
this inebriated insanity:
drowning in the words of Oscar Wilde –
who I read today, had wretchedly passed away.
Move over Shakespeare old dear
make room in the crypt
for the time has come
to stop decaying amid your cerebral acclaim.
Oh I can still hear your words
but you’ve got nothing left to say.