The Death of a Pomegranate

The pomegranate falls when ripe,

Shedding vibrant life force into the

Grateful dust.

 

Without loss or gain;

A minor exchange,

The mind conjures a brutal conspiracy,

The straining troubadours lament.

 

Vivid crimson kissed on the jagged rocks;

Seeds tossed for the birds to snaffle and return.

Bright fragrance permeates such a scene,

Evocative senses jolt the ledge.

 

What can foolish tiger skins hide?

Beneath the shadows of the pomegranate tree

We are no longer opaque in lustrous cloth

Or white marble flesh.

 

Just a musk that lingers to sever chastity

And febrile tendencies;

We are ever drawn to taste these broken fruits,

To join the dancing shades of life.

 

Let innocence fail carelessly,

Trust it.

When it lands, settles,

It will be simple then,

Without rival or roots.

 

 

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