Blood Of The Wine

I was there before you. I took all the chances.
Don’t you try to tell me bout what is really fine.
The reason why I do things (why Idance my dances) is because I’ve been washed in the blood of
the wine.
The blood of the wine has me almost exploding; even my sleeping is charged and alive.
Baptized in streams of it, dreaming my dreams of it, growing, forgoing my natural high.
I was very young, you weren’t even born.
I was being crushed beneath a sun that rarely shined.
Somehow saved by a song, by money and by water and your approaching love, not blood
of the wine.
The blood of the wine has me almost exploding; even my sleeping is charged and alive.
Baptized in streams of it, dreaming my dreams of it, pleading and thundering, wondering
why.
And as the world portends to smother and to strangle, to decimate our optimism in unforgiving bind, we mindfully collect ourselves, allow love to us untangle, partake of cum and honey not of blood nor of wine.
The blood of the wine has me almost exploding; even my sleeping is charged and alive.
Baptized in streams of it, dreaming my dreams of it . . . lightning fulfillment we exemplify.