a wound of clarity.

It came in the mail,
A broken cup.
Silken and strange
Its package of deceit.
I drank from the vessel
and my lip was cut.
A wound was made
I could not speak.
My mouth was but filled
with nectar and blood.
As the sender had willed
or had hoped to achieve.

The deed had been done
the blow had been struck.
And it was this day
I was forced to believe:

It is not without hurt
my beloved thirst.
Not free of treachery
is my hearts resident curiosity
And not without pain
my colourful lust.
Though endowed with pleasure
it is a fragile feast.
Though wise my friends,
Clever still my enemies.