He stands at the gates
unsure whether to enter.
Inside is warmth and salvation,
there is laughter.And wine
burns red on lips.
Heavy aromas waft; sting and soothe,
clawing at him to join the revelry.
The beat of the throng:
in time with his own.
Those sweet waters of sensual joy.
To slip into the womb of Bacchic oblivion
or to remain in attendance?
For to submit to the pleasure
would be to surrender its holy vision.