Patterns oft emerge

Wine and time
cross the line
fading furiously
Toss and turn
smolder, burn
sulking bashfully

They come in and out of range
Patterns oft emerge

Breed and hiss
Gusts and twists
Forces that will never cease
Eyes are blurred
Speech is slurred
Temper is the enemy

It gives him something new to taste
As though it were strapped to his face

His glory upon their guts
Their stories carved to a bust
Just another taste of blood
A thirsty sip from his mug
Little choice of theirs to choose
Die alone or as a group

Some storms never wane
Only the patterns change