Parched

Timid; till throat gorges grave gulps pass,
soak thy nerves to drain coy reaction.
Silence thoust scrupulous voice to sound
that intrepid captor from below the ground.
Sober heart throbs shy and slow
until met with Bacchus sway;
bury fear which worsens thy woe,
to reveal that spirit of red from grey.
Great Flood drown thy troubles to revive
And give momentary breath to thy inner Zeus,
So that thoust may extract thy wretched recluse.

Soon, however, that warming flame,
Ignites to dire shame.
Once peaked, wild fire starts to dwindle.

Dawn then dims that immoral dusk,
and Hand of Sophrosyne fastens thee.
Sour sips just briefly heal,
Only to return a dismal feel.
Drunken stupor brings real disdain,
While moderation and control, liberates the soul.