Barren Vineyard
Searching for poems
like language didn’t exist yet;
when pitched grunts
were impassioned epics,
timbered moans were love sonnets,
and misunderstandings fattened
like over-ripe grapes
splattering on the ground like black eyes
swung from brawling vines.
Looking for something other
than serious moonlight,
smoke after midnight,
and finding only
yellow spots on old poetry.
Words must be
like wine on fire:
burning the page
like a bursting bottle,
cork soaring,
an inked quill
labeling the moment.
Ending up with unfermented thoughts
glaring at each other
and realizing
the muse is just a monster
humans think is beautiful.
April 1, 2018
Tressa Lee Breen
Fantastic! You are off to an amazing start. Really liked this :
ReplyDeleteand misunderstandings fattened
like over-ripe grapes
splattering on the ground like black eyes
swung from brawling vines.
And of course
and realizing
the muse is just a monster
humans think is beautiful.
Thank you!
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