No grapes to pick.
Ghosting through the valley,
Treading on green leaves and pressed juice,
To leave sticky footprints behind.
Falling down the lane.
Fog dripping down my neck (wine-like),
Off the ends of my hair
To puddle on the grainy silt.
I step on a passing bunch,
And the juice runs to stain my nails.
(This is the land of ghosts.)
Feel like I'm in a rut...can't write. Image I got staring up at a hotel ceiling.