We drink fine wines, kissed by the craft of many ages
and without words tell each other of their riches.
Our eyes, themselves having matured through much-troubled times,
now surrender helplessly to this potent chemistry,
a knowing look replacing a thousand care-worn words.
Thus when our prophets are unmasked as mere charlatans
and our dreamtime chaos of smoke and mirrors clears,
the golden age of our aspirations completes,
and like fine wines we will lie together
silently, to gather the dust of a thousand perfect reveries.
© Graham Sherwood 8/2014
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