My Thoughts Wither

My thoughts feel like grapes never picked.

Left alone in the heat just to wither.

Walking down to the cellar, I hold small flames that dance and flicker.

Unabashed, I say meaningless things like,

“The melting point of wax means nothing to me.”

But I admit,

the candles stay close to my chest

when walking down those shadowed steps from which I retreat

to fill oak barrels, dank and musty,

while telling myself, I must be catching a cold, but I know it is just an excuse to excuse myself from getting old.

I wonder

do my words smell better fresh

or is it possible

their aroma becomes more pleasant refined with time.

Tell me here and now,

if you sipped my words from a glass,

would you taste the sweetness of wine?

Or would you just taste bitter?

My thoughts wither.

Thanks for taking the time to read "My Thoughts Wither." If you enjoyed this poem feel free to read some of my other work on Vocal or come see me on Medium to read some of my stuff over there.