The Sadness Fruit

A ripe moment, this sadness fruit!
It swells, its juice sticks on my chin.
Too sweet, too sour, too bitter, too much
my teeth drip with it.

I plucked it from a tree that was still growing
and will never stop; I plucked it from the first
tree; felt my naked heart in its shade.
It stained my skin!

I felt quite sure that all could see
its tint, the gooey pallor of despair
(its pungency I felt in my pores; it burrowed
itself into fingerprints)

and one day there will be joyous fruits
and indifferent vegetables I'm sure
but for now, this wet anguish heart squirms hot
in the pit of my oesophagus.

The End

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