The Grape

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    The Grape

     Starving for attentionFrom the vine A grape  begins to wine A preeminent choiceIt is convinced it is nextPerfection amongst  the rest A leery hand, flusters the groupMissed this timeThat hand, cold as ice Sunsets another day into darknessA boreal evening consumesSeason changing to doom Cracking frost entrenches all One more  daylight breakHolding on with all it will take A soothing hand caresses With a gentle flick of the wristThe Grape finally was picked

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    Poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.

    Plato (BC 427-BC 347) Greek philosopher.

    IS’s Poems (5)

    Title Comments Submitted
    Title Comments Submitted
    In The Corner Of A Circle 0 07/12/2009
    Grieving Fossil 0 07/12/2009
    The Grape 0 07/12/2009
    The Daily Crow 0 07/12/2009
    ~ 0 07/12/2009
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