Rolls upon rolls of your dense mass,
flow upon the carpet, staining it,
as you eat the fruit of the vine
of summer’s harvest, denying goodness
and simple pleasures in your hedonist splurge.
And the paupers pay for their ill-deserved torment
as your laughter echoes (hinting of petty cruelty)
along the chambers of time’s corridors –
The peasants- simple minded in their purity
grovel at your feet for an ounce of forgetfulness,
as even that is denied in your perverse,
Machiavellian torture . . . Oh, Bacchus,
why is it you who seek to deny
to those who need most, as your thieves,
small-minded rulers, and arrogant anarchists
reign in sovereign glory – casting shadows
upon the countenances of those for whom life
is a struggle with no ending . . .
Your baseness is exceeded only
by the excesses in your form. And who,
upon entry into the hallowed gates shall
inherit the earth? Has God become
a handmaiden of yours as well?
Or perhaps, your monstrous form
one day chanced to alight on Apollo
snuffing out life’s light
as all became cloaked in darkness.

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