There's a book on the shelf, dust cov'ring the pages,
which no one has held for many some ages,
like fruit on the vine no one will bite,
story is wasted, fruit that is tasteless.
Sour grapes hang on vine, like pages and lines,
penned down by someone who thought it worthwhile,
But how are they sour if no one has bitten?
Are the pages a story when read or when written?
Ink-stained and smudged, written with love,
red apples that taste like the layer of dust,
cov'ring the book high on the shelf,
not a bite taken for poison or health.