Why does poetry often taste of wine,
it's scripture mature and somehow divine.
Cloaked in time,
Each fruit note hidden behind
the words that don't come to mind
cheapened by childish rhyme.
Caught in a dance, intertwined
between two worlds, yours and mine.
Sometimes I think poetry is but a serpentine,
a recollection we must unwind.
Under beats and rhythm we are confined,
Syllables and feeling attempting to align.

Instead, I think I'll write for human kind.