Twisted branches, like despairing arms,

Ensnare the lost, bewitched by silent charms.

Tendrils of ennui, worn on icy sleeves

A despondent dance, where hope deceives.

 

Withered leaves folded, parchment of lore,

Inscribed in their veins, tales we adore.

Whispers of horizons, distant and rare, 

The koala and vinegar venture there.

 

Through obsidian abyss, an unlikely pair roam,

A realm of forgotten dreams, their own.

From this darkness, where ambitions take flight,

Hope kindles softly, a sliver of light.

 

'Neath gas giants, where dreams align

The koala sets his gaze, on balsamic wine.

A championship elixir, so sweet and true

Memories of past, vibrant and ethereal blue

 

Moonbeams ignite, a gleaming maize splendor

Light exploding, from one furry hope's ember.

Under the tapestry of night, sanguinity reclaimed

All from wild dreams, that we had named.

 

Note: Thank you to Brian for proving that a young Spring-aged Balsamic can rise from the darkness and age into a championship blend even on a stormy winter night in Houston.  We all know those aren't the optimal conditions for achieving a good batch. Thank you for mentioned my weird rambling on the podcasts and that it captured an emotion and had some meaning to you. Your writing has that impact on me and so many here. That mine could make you feel anything at all is very special to me. As for what any of this Balsamic Vinegar shit actually means? That's for all of you to decide.

Go Blue. They did it.