Black Fruit
Black Fruit
Sweat on his brow from the labour of his fruit
Which seldom does grow despite his tireless pursuit
Maybe it’s the soil in which they were planted
Lushes trees that did flourish now stand disenchanted
Once a garden of beauty now bares a sinister side
Malevolently murky where evil does hide
The frail gardener’s hands are no longer so strong
And a persistent voice does remind him of all of his wrongs
It’s not his guilty conscience just a sickening trend
So familiar and demanding does this voice always lend
He thought the bellowing shotgun would make this burden soon cease
As well as the frenzied concealment of every godforsaken piece
As the day is consumed by darkness and only the fog is his kin
To the disdain of the gardener her voice will never give in
There’s no worthy fruit of his labour on which to survive
He lies in bed cold and hungry shotgun by his side
Fifty five years of memories have tainted the soil
And the fruit when it grows shares the same shade as oil
The torment and anguish scar like a deep wound that’s long bled
He’ll soon marry again it’s to death he will wed
Now the gardens neglected without the Old man’s repair
But the smell of ripening fruit does now fill the air
Copyright © Wayne Power | Year Posted 2016
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