Anatomy of a Wine Bottle

As a somber note is written on paper tinted crimson,
Another victim picks up one more glass of merlot
As his head tries to catch up to his heart.
His superficial smile would hearten, no, ensorcell.
As each minute passed, his soul grew bitter and drunk,
Just like one who lives in a turbid labyrinthine suffering.

It is not only he who is suffering,
But his daughter with nails painted crimson.
Off of his favor, she would get drunk,
But all he does is sup and sip his chilled merlot.
On all but him could she ensorcell,
And of all she gave, the most was her heart.

He exploited her fragile glass heart,
Like a lone butterfly suffering
In a tangled web. The spiders do ensorcell,
With eyes pure wicked crimson.
They drink the blood, aged rich like merlot,
Yet it is not they who are found dead and drunk.

It is her father, drunk,
With his own fickle heart
Who sips his merlot.
On the inside, he is suffering,
His soul cries tears of crimson.
Porch climber, the wino, will do nothing to ensorcell.

Like a fleeing gypsy, with the best can he ensorcell.
And what a charming man he is, when he is not drunk.
In the flute, whine sparkles like garnets; liquid crimson.
In it, he tries so desperately to mend his broken heart.
All of his life, suffering.
And he will always have his glass of merlot.

The blackcurrant, peppery, spicy merlot.
In the wrong hands, its power can ensorcell.
It causes bliss, or perpetual suffering.
All relations, they become drunk.
It doesn't take a drunkard's beating heart
To show that blood is simple dark crimson.

How do you limn the color crimson? An empty bottle of merlot
Or a broken Heart, no need to ensorcell.
In reality, all it takes is a drunk and a life of suffering.
Or