Of all the vines we pressed,
Poured out our quiet dreams to test,
In fragile glass we dare to rest.
Bittersweet flavor slowly fades
But on my tongue still lingers the aftertaste,
Of all the wines in glasses, we raised.
Of all the light that flashes,
And dances in her eyes.
Sparks that lingers,
Blurs and flickers,
All in the shadows,
Of the so called inner light.
Poetry is but a letter
Left unsent to whom it is addressed.
So it whispers to the wandering winds,
Hoping they will carry its words
To the very ears for whom they were meant.