The Flavor of Nerves

There’s an old bottle in the cellar, darling.
Let’s have us a little chat.

When hopes are raised,
when hopes are met,
when hopes are hopes 
and not founded in reality,
not grounded in eternity,
just faded into ecstasy,
to rot into insanity,
when love and drugs are just the same,
romanticized in fame,
just to rise up in flame
at the smallest drop of oil,
when a different mouth plants 
a different kiss between 
different kinds of folded palms:
cold ones,
soft ones,
wrinkled ones and
catatonic,
when each year they fade
into hopes,
into fire,
into cinders,
into soil, 
only to reap the beauty in the shape of our favorite flowers,
into hopes;

Then it is that,
stomach churning,
progressively turning
into throbs and aches
that soon transform to sobs
and sorrows in images of dusty curtains 
neglected for fear of the light outside that
might perhaps be darkness.

There, my dear, is the flavor of nerves.
You can taste it in this here cup.

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