she couldn't go back there anymore to that place

previously scarred by her rape and disgrace

camouflaged aggression on a pink petal sheet

now more darkness to taint the place where they'd meet

he sat at the table, drinking and drinking all night

the golden pitcher gleamed even in low candlelight

she never understood how she ended up with this fate

or how he could douse himself in that drink of self-hate

he threw everything everywhere, onto the clean floor

he threw coins, and old clothes and the anger he'd store

he soured the grapes and then bruised the plum

broke all the plates and then drank all the rum

he tore down the places of the girl you can't see

jabbed knives of words into what once was free

a short little drunk who slurred when he talked

red face and beer belly, a swizzle stick that walked

his fingers gripped at the nothingness within his life

praying light wouldn't reveal the things he'd done to his wife

praising God and then betraying him with every cruel turn

and he entered the church, yet no Words would he learn

he's asleep there beside that golden pitcher he loved

more than himself, or another, or his own God above

gorging his face with the food left too long, going bad

more bitter poison to feed the delusions he had

she left and closed the door on the wreck of their lives

on the arguments, the emptiness and his spewing of lies

for her the golden pitcher was worth naught but such pain

and her poverty is much better than his life gone insane