Yet Another Extended Metaphor Poem: The Wino Confesses Her Addiction

This is a fairly obvious extended metaphor. I think instead of spelling it out this time, for once, I'll just let it speak for itself. So, that being said, here ya go. . .

The Wino Confesses Her Addiction

He's a ripe grape --

crushed, strained, bottled, and

fermented.

When he finally

comes to me,

he's finely aged,

full-bodied,

with dry overtones,

and most importantly,

completely intoxicating.

He comes with a warning

Label that I never

bother to read.

He sits chilled

and breathing

and encased in a shapely package

that gleams

and glistens

as beads of moisture

form upon it.

His heady scent

and taste evoke

danger and thrills

and secrets and late-nights and

things we shouldn't do but would never

take back.

I greedily swallow him down.

I want to take in every

last drop of him,

know every note

of his flavor,

have him

deep inside me

as I become an expert in

the ways in which

he wields his weapons.

He never fails

to seduce me,

when he chooses

to do so.

All it takes is a waft

of his oaky aroma

in my direction,

a gleam from

a bead of moisture

on his wrapping,

I lose myself to him.

It's a fight

I'll never win.

He'll always get his way

with me.

I'm powerless

against this vice

and though I know

I shouldn't drink so greedily

from his cup,

I can't help but gulp

ravenously.

copyright 2009 Katherine Andrews