Grapes

In the vineyards of the heart
so many grapes are grown
upon a soil inherited,
first tilled by ancestral hands,
the harvest is so natural,
its fruit sweet and succulent,
having a sugar that blends into the blood,
nourishing and satisfying,
when consumed in its normal form.

But some can’t find gratification
from its simple shape,
they squeeze and press its purple pearls
for every drop of juice,
fermenting it as wine
to make its taste rivet with warm euphoria,
staining the mind with its inebriation,
until the brain swims in its alcoholic seduction.

So naïve the power of that plum liquid,
how it is addicting and always snares
the inside with a need for more.
Then blurring thoughts and drowning sanity,
slowly slipping into mine field
where staggering leads to tragedy.

Oh the laments the imbiber has
after sitting and nursing those dreaded wounds,
trying not to bleed to death
while those who just ate the grapes
just keep enjoying the flavor,
free of fear it will guide you down a road
with a dead end at the cemetery.