Oh ye whose orbed figures gathered sweet,
connected by thy fibers ever frail.
Arranged in nature's order--bundled neat
to satisfy...and yet to no avail.
For too, thy flesh, is bitter to my taste
and seeded coarse like grit upon my teeth.
But yet I savor every bite as chaste,
as sacred, and as all that grace bequeath.
My dear beloved fruit of thorny bush,
you satiate the craving once unknown.
Though black, enlightened, do your flavors push
to understanding fluid, which has grown.
Now empty hands once full of thee must wait
until our paths are crossed again by fate.
No comments:
Post a Comment