The Devil In the Drink

I drank your wine
every drop
down to its last dregs
in anticipation
of the drunken joy you promised.

Each glass I sipped
held a promise
that at the bottom of it
relief waited
in the promised delight of forgetting.

The poison in your drink
went down
a sweet boquet but bitter swallow
I, caught
between swiggin hope or spitting tragedy,

drank the fruit from your vine
licked my lips
and held out my glass for more
clearly choosing
to swallow your deceptive hope or my judgment.

Awaking from the effects of your drink still
in hazy stupor,
mouth dry and thirsty
my conscience screams,
"Your drink didn't do the deed!"

Now hung over with disillusion
head bowed, eyes closed
I wait for the familiar voices
then shrink when
regret and grief greet me.