"to the wings he shall set" a poem in free verse

Dancing on legs of Merlot,
he sings it's not over.
There's a rewound promise,
of an excessive utter,
of an excuse,
that there is a whistle,
to be blown,
as if we were not sober.
In the wine,
it's not to be,
unless there is a whistle,
to be blown,
will he?
There are no rules,
to the innocent souls,
that become of the wine,
to the worthless,
inner chosen child,
that sees the truth,
in your eyes,
as he blows the whistle,
as he sips in the river,
that fills his stomach,
from the past,
his mind is set,
on clouds of treasure,
that complicate the sense,
of the sober hands,
that reach in the river,
to feel,
the cool rush,
while the ringing,
from the whistle subsides,
to the rumble,
with sirens,
that shatter,
the inner child,
as he sips,
the last drop,
of the Merlot,
to sit,
on the wings,
while the clouds reside,
in his transparent state,
wishes of the whisper,
of his mothers wine.