Grapes now sat too long locked in a barrel.
Cold, dark, and bitter.
Only selected by people who see deeper
within its flavor.
Rather the time it spent alone,
Fermenting in its own blood.
Its once ripe and sugared innards,
Now labeled as aged.
Well Dated.
As if it were so simple to earn a luxury label.
Behind closed doors
The fruit of a womb had to rot
Now served at a fine price and desired by many.
She couldnt quite figure out the notes
As she swirled her glass.
The strong aroma of time,
Patience and dedication,
Nourished by nothing but the grapes desire to die.
Instead it flourished,
It grew,
through the comfort of the claustrophobic darkness.