Bottled Beauty

A Poem by Ejay

Can Wine Bottles revolt ?

The air was filled with clangs of glass
and immaculate praise for my Aunt’s Vinery.
The carpet revelled in the aroma of grapes
while the kitchen was impregnated with trance.

Leathered boots sang their song;
the song of my Uncle’s arrival.
His thickly gloved hand held a diamond
the Vinery’s very own Kohinoor:
Lo! and behold! She was the Pinot Noir.

The bottled beauty made her way
through throngs of awestruck admirers
into the loving arms of my Aunt
who caressed her with a painful parting glance.

The Vinery’s Queen pranced onto the pedestal,
poised to nurse her cicatrice
and embraced the bottle-opener
with the kiss of her caramel shade tiara.

Then, she stunned us.

Out came blinding gushes of water,
with scarring sprays of droplets
and fearful waves with happily breaking crests.

The Bottled Beauty had given birth
to a Tsunami.

The Tsunami meandered with grace,
delivering powerful blows.
The Bohemian book-case fell first,
shattering into brittle pieces of mahogany.
Then, the wine glasses cracked with splendour
into shards of broken pieces.

The rustic carpet breathed her last,
as her magical threads singed under water poison.
And together, they entered the blissful gates of heaven,
leaving us behind.

The Tsunami hollered,
marvelling at the monuments of power
emboldening her, wave by wave,
victim by victim.

Then, she came for us.

She swallowed my Aunt,
gulped my Uncle
and feasted on my Cousin
while the wine connoisseurs were
her lip-smacking appetizers.

As I plead for mercy,
The Pinot Noir
laughed a radiant laugh
and threw a wry smile .

Thoughts in my head wove
an alluring memory
of a forgotten summer day.
The day I trod on soulful grapes
and slaughtered the serene wines
just to satiate my paucity of time.

But I wasn't the lone culprit .
I had my followers;
my faithful comrades in battle
who committed such ghastly crimes
against our beautiful, beautiful Mother
as every second waved a goodbye .

Her tempests spoke of tales
that hath remained unspoken
tales of our mother, tales of our acts,
tales that were the coffers of our Mother's betrayed tears.

The Tsunami was a mourner
tumulted into an endless abyss of darkness
due to a bunch of ungrateful beings .

Today,
Time is our Judge
And Renewability our Magistrate.
Let's plead guilty
before an entire ocean flows under the bridge.

Else you'll hear this beautiful tale
all over again
from the Tsunami in your Wine Bottle