The Birth of Spirits
You are wine in a bottle, aging by sweet increments.
Your color deep and brooding is sweet to the lips.
The crushing of the grape arrested your color and your truth.
The trained smell the sweet bouquet, inhaling the delicacy and turmoil.
The wait seemed long as time took her toll, but time did not forget to imbue you with strength.
In the goblet you swirl as sunlight warm unfurls.
The turn of the tongue is open to
Your vast array of ages.
Trapped in a flask buries deep your secrets
Nothing, not air, has ere escaped but pushed back down to your inward parts
The time of your perfection and your truth.
The unleashing, like a geyser pouring upon your fellows and filling every goblet
To overflowing.
This nector can not remain hidden in the dark forever,
But every flask will come undone and drinking done with joy as one more glass is tipped in satisfaction of the birth of better wine.
Here is today's freewrite. The prompt is wine
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Wow! Sexy!
Thank you @kimberlylane ❤
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One does not have to break the bottle,
nor fill to overflow on each serve.
The cup of the hospitable visitor will never be drained entirely.
And the cupboard always dry, waiting receptive.
A makers task is never done.
Wine will spill and casks be drummed.
Rum to pour across the floor.
With scotch and brandy flasks in store.
The true task here is to be served.
With intentions to pass on.
A fellow to toast and roast, well..
I care not for the acts of most.
Only care that all are heard.
Let the bottle become a trumpet!
And let your cries rise to the heavens!
Praise to Bacchus!!
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