When you picked me, you had the choice of so many. All you had to do is use me as I wanted to be used, and not commit the worst sin, to ignore me.
You now cut me as if I were an over-ripe nectarine, hardened skin, soft flesh.
You press on my skin with your rusty diseased blade and finally I give way and so you clumsily slice through my flesh to the core of my creation and stop with jerk, sliding off to the right to meet yet more flesh.
You press on my skin with your rusty diseased blade and finally I give way and so you clumsily slice through my flesh to the core of my creation and stop with jerk, sliding off to the right to meet yet more flesh.
I am damaged forever never to be savoured or re-planted. I will bear no more fruit for anyone and now lie open, unwanted, flesh exposed, my life flowing away from the tainted, crumb covered, rancid dish cloth strewn sideboard, dripping onto a dusty red quarry tiled filthy floor.
My sweet liquid – now forming a ceyance around your discoloured, discarded, dirty, degenerated, and dogged cigarette butt, as my nectar mixes with the vile saliva-infected nicotine on the filter – unable to heal.
You callous consciously caved, calculated and cocooned carnivore with no love for the beauty and health that I offered. The flesh that you destroy will consume you in time.
©PEDRO-BATPOET 2018
Pedro Batpoet 