Shall I compare thee to a summer's vintage?
Were you planted in your vineyard
By the light of the moon
Or beneath the scorching sun at noon?
Were you watered by fresh water
Or sorrow filled salty tears?
Metal tears through
Your soft corky flesh
Shredding the last of your dignity
Along with your secrets
Tearing from you
The nectar you've long withheld
Clear glass
Like stars
Twinkling
In a field
Of Black Velvet
Eagerly waiting,
Anticipating,
Thirsting
For a taste
Longing,
Aching,
Empty
Needing
Fulfillment.
You are the perfect vintage,
Ripened beneath the heat
Of a scorching summer sun.
Your flesh torn from the vine
Beaten, bruised unrecognizable.
A sip is all I require to know your origin
A taste is all I desire to understand your history
Yet, your scent filling my nostrils offer only
Memories of immeasurable pain.
What shall I compare thee my summer vintage?
Oh wine of my youth, have you reached maturity yet?
Or like my twilight, have you grown bitter over time?
Are you the unripened love I knew in yesteryear?
No. You are the love I bore in pain and sorrow.
Full-bodied, aged to perfection, sweet summer wine of mine.
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