See the page The Last Lich King and the Taken for more information.
That fine, red, wine trickles down my throat on it’s journey to my brain,
it burns my eyes and stains my hands as it tears my spirit to shreds.
I paint my face with it’s fragrant heat until I seem to blush like a child,
the mask, it is false, the innocence lost, and the babe lies cold in his grave.
With rippling cuts, it cores my heart, while it grins like a naked skull,
caressing my loins as it bites my lips and whispers to me my name.
Such a warm, red, wine to take what is mine, and mat my hair with it’s salt,
it stains my clothes and pours to the ground like a steaming, sickly, rain.
It’s found the quenchless thirst that dwelt in my sleep and nourished it to life,
pressing me to pull from this endless cup, while I drown in it’s savage flow.
The feral light that burns behind my eyes is that wine looking out through my face,
sobriety flown, the only sounds that I know, tempest winds and the wailing dead.
It’s a thick, red, wine that tastes so sweet, as it scalds my thoughts with it’s fire,
with tattered lips smiling, I laugh at their fear, for I know I am insane.
With strips of flesh I bind up my wounds, the bandages rent from my skin,
the more I swathe, the more I need flay, sticky blades remove all pain.
Phantoms walk with me, now, by night and by day, calling me away,
singing to me a chilling litany, their shrouds shrieking the refrain.
Oh, That fine, red, wine weeps within my mind and damns me forever to hell!