Early in the stormy evening,
when the table is wonderfully set and the fire laid,
I sit down alone to my terrible home cooked meal,
a course of the raw meat of heartache,
the sour grapes of wrath I do partake,
a glass of the bitter wine of discontent,
to wash it all down my parched pallet,
and for my dessert I feast upon the apples of discord,
knowing my love has forever slipped away.
Donavon Scott Vinson
A poem about the bitterness of losing love.We do so often dine upon the bitter pill of our mistakes.
