The taste of it is just offensive to the tongue.
Poison to the insides.
Blinding to the body senses.
The soul power of pasted lives, for a source of power!
In for rage or pride, the troubles only mirror themselves.
Once inside, they say it can bring contentment and lament . . . why do such risks for an aberrant sip of mother earth’s empathy?
To take a gulp, from agitation outgrowth . . . murder and left to fester . . . how that a pleasure.
When it sounds nothing more than cannibals do to each other!
Over reacting, is commonsense here!
For in true . . . that it is as they said; with mindless: thinking it to be the blood of those who had once battled against the high vigor abiding mysticisms of folklore.
Why would another follow, if those of the blood we drink are the lives that failed or became bitter overtime.
Shall not these inners be scalded by this runny?
May those of the boorishly ways abandoned in swiftness with their tails between their legs, for another life they will never-so have!
Dare not even to go look upon it, in unwilling desires, nay, those emotions will stay intact.
If offer by who is lost through years of this poison . . . bend all chances and run, for the course of chance it, is too great.
Running and fair away . . . hinder it for as all as you can.
Not even one drop is merit all the dilemmas that come with it.
Not one.




Fear of Wine

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