Such a fragile fruit, ripe
in the arrogance of youth
sickly and so easily bruised
Spoiled to the core of a
bitter existence
empty, hiding
the sour stink of gooey
soft rot with fragrant
flower; the allure of
the sweet smelling rose
masking decomposition
within shiny shell
Haunted
by the ghostly knots
of your own wounded
thoughts
that leave you
a trespasser now
in another’s garden
fallen, cast out by
the trees, freed of
their burden, and you
thinking you knew
more than the seasons
and the cycles, the measure
of life and time
trading wisdom for ego
you took the leap
into the dying leaves
that cradle your sleep
and still you have not
learned, still you cannot
see
that you are no better
or worse than the world or me
as your broken tongue speaks
with venom
all teeth, no bite and no
spine like the worms you
invite
gnawing on the
decay of your insides
because you are only
beautiful on the outside
(for a season, for a time)
but soon my dear, yes soon
The ugly
poking its way
through
the worm hole of all
eventual and necessary
truths
©Debbie Berk
October 6th 2016
