ink flows like wine
from a drunken mind
slurred speech and rhyme
wittle away space-time
and then the reader steps back
from the anomaly gap
locking the book, once again fine.

but what would come of a quill
never still
of service to soothe
to file thoughts smooth
using ink like wine
for a drunken mind
and what if the drunkard never came to?

a writer alight in a maelstrom of script
will sink in ink and speak of wine
-for what more may come of drinking minds-
and there need not be a method to
the madness of a mainstay
but lacking a knack to keep ink on track
the mind will wind the other way:

to sleep alive
and awake to die
never the true dawn of day.