NEW FRUIT TO BLOSSOM
My plate is a pattern of despair -
on its face, etched, is all the botany
of despond and all the sickening
tendrils and vines of overreach and
clutch. Would such rancid growth
were trimmed and cut immediate.
But I am not a trimmer, nor a cutter.
For Life, why Life, there is no
second chance? I have lived already
ten thousand years and years and
years. My razor's all-thwarted intent
may have lost its edge, yet here in
place I shall remain; for my plate
is a pattern of despair, and I am
waiting for new fruit to blossom.
No comments:
Post a Comment