Soul ale drips down my tongue

Gold as honey, warm as sun
Thirst not slaked even as I imbibe
From the well of my sensuous scribe
His fermented fiction, pressed prose
Tickle my senses from head to toes
Intoxicated, tingling in every appendage
As I sample each heady vintage
Sweet to my lips, spice to my heart
I revel in his brew, his potent; impassioned art
Elixir spiked with essence so rare
I barely can speak, hardly draw air
Crave as I do for my one addiction
I fear I cannot be cured from this affliction
So I beg him, “Distill in haste lest I lose my mind!” 
And I’ll drench my mouth in his sweet moonshine
Copyright ©2012 Spiritwind Studios Ltd


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