Bacchus and the Muses

My words are 

  A sweet wine
 Which ever 
So slowly melts
Like slushies in summer
Into your 
Plutonian 
Dreams:
I laid
On the warmth 
Of the roof 
Of the world
Seemingly
Dreaming
Ever so slowly
As if 
The world were 
A diabetic's 
Heart beat,
My candle eyelids
burning
Down the wick
Without 
Any midnight
Oil. Berserk
Beating brain
Pulsating like mad
Men
In the White House
Who don't know
What they're 
Even doing
                   Anymore.
   Yet the typewriter plays on
And on
And on.
Infinite in its desire
For self destruction.
I'm just left
With paltry works
Of words-
My words.
  A sweet wine
 Which ever 
So slowly melts
Like slushies in summer
Into your 
Plutonian 
Dreams.
 
This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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