_i feel like fermenting_

i'd Never quite known
exhaustion before though
i've always thouGht it simple.

_like cherries in a basin,_

now I've found it profound -
to twist a meaning Or two -
and i thInk it best unseen.

_or grapes between the toes,_

the mind beginS to wander,
to places most unnatural,
and Thoughts begin to bend like

_squishing out some innards_

nonexistent spoons
before A serIous eye
of a trained and taught child.

_to spill into bottles._

Words begin to slur -
to make a plaY-on-words -
and the universal voice

_and with yeast to a cellar_

droNes and mutters quite
monotonalLy -
a buZz in drifting ears.

_for a year or so to wait_

and beFore too long the
sugar in the blood -
the stIll and stale blood -

_before we begin anew_

begins to age quite oddly
and the muslos tHat're frozen
Stir with a tipsy motion.

_with turning in cold earth_

things become laughable,
with thIs intoxication
of sterile origionS.

_wary to not shatter glass._

and so we become
fermented with oUr child's
Wine of Insomnia.