A bushel of grapes
Tugged from a tree
The final cluster of sun drowned fruit
Some wrinkled and sour
Others sheltered whithin
Robust and flavorful
Despite the weathering

Violet words
Broad and sweet
Yet hoping
To be made small and bitter
Intoxicating
Clumsy fingers providing pressure
With contemplation lending time

All the work
Perhaps only bringing a single glass
Stained skin
Arthritic knuckles
May it be worthy of the taste
Born of rot
Preaching of it
But perhaps deceiving eyes of others
Into finding light

 

-Galwyn

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