PRIOR TO WINE

Beist thou the tendril
T’wich adheres my veiny grasp
Strengthens thus my being
Such that freeing would perhaps
Subtly but surely
Find me prostrate at thy base
Wilting whilst I spoil
Into soil-laden waste
There succumbing promptly
Midst the sepulchre and stone
Yearning yet again to clasp
Onto thy placit – Grown.
Thoroughly complacent
Whilst adjacent to thy brawn
Steadfast with ambition
To position myself on
Thy sturdy sense of solace
That which carefully consoles
And bids me climb thee higher
To desire skyward strolls -

Hold me lovely
I’m becoming
Unbecoming fast
In the sanctum
Reels this rancor
From the anchors of our past
As an answer
To the question
I now bring myself to (t)ask
Like the question
As an answer
In suggestion wears its mask

- Thus hexed by intuition
And perplexed by death instilled
I’m vexed by this next question
. . . Beist thou my tendril?