False Hopes
    by Sarah Elizabeth Hume

   Carmine resides within my drunken gaze.
   Shivering vines of it
   beguile in ecstasy amongst pale crystal.

   It is but memory,
   hint of warmth after death's inquisitor has stole away.
   Leaving in it's place
   a shadowy mark
   barren and cold.

   Lingering hints of it's crimson velvet
   stroking the flesh of my fingertips.
   Scanning the softness like miles of field.
   A liquor, unlike any other to me.
   Satisfying cracked,
   parched lips in quenching pools of reverie.

   To reside in false hope,
   a wine so sweet.