Crushed Grapes

Seeping into a stone mug

Blending with synergy

Bleeding thier blessing

Upon the spout that pours

These purple grapes

Willingly squashed under our feet

Are the fruits of a long harvest

Being prepared for wine

To stomp and feel their cool eruption

Is a pleasure in itself

Though to drink their godly nectar

Is pure benediction

It infuses and intoxicates

Making one spin and dream

With each fallen inhibition

We stray closer to the godly throne

It is orgasmic, it is benign

So as season concludes, we drink

Above the clouds, beneath the Earth

Beyond the moon, within the sun

No cup is left wet

Each drop swept clean by our tongues

The other plants lay lame in harvest

Weeping, seeing their purpose unendowed

The liquids of our welfare,

The spoils of our spirits,

The fruits of our toil,

With thirst born of endurance

We drink..

The wine of crushed grapes