Bittersweet
Outside the city where the pomegranates grow
is where my dreary muse must go
to scout a tree that song-like speaks
of scarlet fruit on Eden’s Eve.
With blushing bulbs, one bushy shrub
drones a dirge with leaning tongue:
The ancient apple’s several seeds
have pleased your buds with bursts of sweet
that splattered 'brane with each wet bite
and sprinkled earth with bane and blight.
For once the fertile fruit is snatched
the ravaged rind is quickly cast,
the sacred seed, forgotten pith,
full squandered pomegranate gifts.
All have plucked, but pondered not
the way a bittersweet will prompt.
If you are such, from what I spoke
then take your leave a different route.
I took the fruit that’s left for dross.
My muse has come to prize the loss.
A First Line Prompt - Poetry Contest
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