a whirring minute hand

maybe you’re like a block of aged cheese
or a glass of fine wine

you have to ferment
wait out the insanity of these unstable years
and stew in your own juices
left to your own demise

until the cellar door is thrown open
and the dusty light comes down in chinks
bathing you in realization and fresh air
with just a hint of apprehension

until the truth is unveiled
like a painting in a gallery
a writer's hand finally steady
on a smoothed but crumpled page

until you’re a prized possession
an exotic delicacy