Red cherries bleed, their cries contorting
carving indelible marks, as he marches on
lured by the siren, falling...
further and further.

Crimson perfection drips silently, passing untarnished
Slices of air pierce smoothly across
the facade
and all he sees is the surface,
A paragon of virtues. Lies.

A breath... Teasing, pulling nearer
taunting surreptitiously, appearing
as smooth and serene
as his claret wine.

But it is the haunting whistle
of the winds that insidiously,
effaces the dark sweet taste,
until there is nothing more.
Nothing left... but
Surrender.