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The Grape

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The Grape
Starving for attentionFrom the vine A grape begins to wine A preeminent choiceIt is convinced it is nextPerfection amongst the rest A leery hand, flusters the groupMissed this timeThat hand, cold as ice Sunsets another day into darknessA boreal evening consumesSeason changing to doom Cracking frost entrenches all One more daylight breakHolding on with all it will take A soothing hand caresses With a gentle flick of the wristThe Grape finally was picked

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