Wines and Walks by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine
Wines and Walks
Wine lies on her fingertips

The red silhouettes her breast
Addressed, to her lover so much
Younger than she.
Needles wheeling the pillowtip
And it slipped, the sharded glass
Cutting the finger form, and of it
Crashed the blood.
Many a man has loved her,
Many more tried, trying too
Hard, too little, too patient
Too cold.
Older and wiser the man arrives
Crying his hands to the heart
Of a lover who mothered him
In the cold Irish night, to the cold
Latin heart.
Monies he left her, cushioned
By longing, belongings becoming
A period’s strain, the chains he called
By a friendlier name, now shattered
Walking the broken pathways.
Eoghan Lyng
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