Fermented ideas
Growing old in cellars

A *******’s hand
Looking like old leather

Reaching out to touch the skies
Feeling love as the white dove flies

Empty bottles
Dancing in the crypt

A poets tears flowing as ink
Following the years of saddened drink

In a boat, I take up the oars
My dream to escape these horrid shores

In the seas, where ideas flow free
Tiss here that I ceased to be