The color of kings
Lies in my roots
And flows through the minds
Of all men.
The warm, toxic comfort
That lies in a hue
Comforts me time and again.
The blood of royals
Is squeezed from fresh grapes
And they drink it
Along with their cheese
Its rich, heavy scent
Flows with the wind
And teases the gullible breeze.
It’s dark and infectious,
But beautifully so,
And possesses a sickening grace,
And it’s the color I picture
When I’ve come to my end
And the soil embraces my face.