A skin of wine, flagon of malt
were meant to alter the gestalt
of a relationship gone wrong
and left to fester for too long.
It was meant to be a gift
left at a door to seal a rift—
a treasure left there in the dust
to heal a wound and restore trust.
But battles don’t so easily end.
A sincere gift may just offend.
Too much whiskey, too much wine
do not prompt reason when they combine.
They render one less than astute.
No offering of peace will suit
one determined to find fault
and so the feuding did not halt.