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Over a Dish of Fruit

"My father is a shell.
My father is dead."

Droplets fall from her brown
Skies. Eats ripe grapes that
would have been wine.

"Stories are all we have.
Don't you understand?"

"Stop saying that."

Trembling. A lonely winter
Alder, shaken by Northern winds
Here in the land of endless sun
Where heroes go to die for women
And Water; God and glory.

Forks clang against porcelain plates
Cutting wedges of watermelon, its
Black seeds float in pink sweet juices

Nearby desert aches for the sowing
Soon to be suffocated with parched tan
Sand. Voices cry out 'Whatsoever a man
soweth, that shall he also reap.'

"Now. What do you have to tell me?"

A bastard prophet, wanders, thirsty
For truth. Removes his sandals, weeps
Gnawing the earth, as the desert catches
Ablaze.

"I can't. Not here. Not now."

"I already know."

A Heaving like rock slides. Tumbling.
Rolling. Crashing. Thrashing. Echoes.
Silence.

"I'm leaving you."

"I knew. I knew it."

A city crumbles to skeletons.
Memories now. Ruins that are buried
With time. Only visited, never lived.

Empty grapevine. Strawberry tops sit
like green stars, sopping up juices
Uneaten.

Comments

Anonymous said…
Hey there! Thanks for linking my blog. Keep up with the good writing.
I'm actually ashamed that I haven't been writing as much as I should though.
August 20, 2008 at 6:05 PM
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