I wondered, if wine helped us forget our sorrows/frustrations/regrets,
gifting us a night of unhaunted dreamless sleep,
then why not take refuge in it?

But then, kicked in my treacherous sagacity of 26 years,
as it rebuked in my head,
"More the sorrow, more the wine
and longer the time of sleep
you'd enjoy, my dear.
And one day,
you'd have lots of wine still untouched,
but not enough time to sleep it out.
That day,
you'd regret leaving the reigns of your sanity
to the intoxicating ambrosia of deceit, my friend;
rather than trusting the blunt, red hot knife that I was.
I would've burnt your wounds; charred them too,
but Time would've dried them out,
till it broke out as flakes of your dead skin,
only to reveal a brighter you, within.
Oh, it's too late now, for wine is a knife that cuts you slow,
so slow, that you end up savouring the warmth it gives.
The warmth, of your own blood,
bleeding within your own wounds"

- AbhiN