Bruised Fruit
59
To herself she is
a bruised fruit,
moulding on the side,
passing through the stages
of corrosion and decay.
A spare fruit,
spoiling in the calm,
sitting on the lips
of thankless oblivion.
A ruined fruit,
rotting with the times,
Awaiting validation
as an item of consumption.
A wasted fruit,
aging past its use
withering in the light
of impossible love.
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Comments
Thanks myownworld. I don't know why but I find my poems always veer towards the melancholy. Maybe I should set myself the challenge of writing a 'happy' poem. Stretch myself a bit lol. Thanks for your comment.
myownworld says:
2 months ago
I love your poems....they really have such an impact on one! this one conveyed a sense of despondency (like 'wasted' time) so well. thank you for sharing with us.