Bearing Fruit
Long hopes for my bearers fruited comfort, of new soft sins quarreled.
‘Tis lost.
The tree grew,
no caretaker to guide it’s way to the sky.
It’s limbs sprawled and gnarled with contempt and confusion.
One yearns for you’re insight.
Though beyond, the tree will bore it’s supple fruit,
‘Tis fruit will not be lost.
Caretakers will guide their way.
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