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