A rhyme is like a fine wine
if given the time it needs to procure,
just as red grapes pruned from the vine
are primers to a wine’s contour.

 

I churn grapes within my winepress
while stomping on a vat of ripened fruit,
stepping strong with every step
on a batch of 100 proof.

 

Crafting sweet words of intoxication
as a revelation that may leave you crossed,
tossed by intersections amid salutations
& provocation to words now lost.

 

Sitting here while contemplative
of the fermented grapes within my grasp,
amid my vineyard, words are debated
as related topics of the past.

 

Within my glass of personal generosity
is a philosophy of vats well churned,
nurtured on a vine of democracy
as a rhyme finally discerned.