The prompt for this poem needs no explaining, but if you’d like to know more about Anacreon check out what Wikipedia has to say.
Wine consoles me like a lover,
the liquid caressing my lips
with a smooth touch that uncovers
my controlled facade with each sip,
fills my insides, my face a smirk—
an effort to escape this mourning;
and for a time it seems to work,
until I wake the next morning.