Poetry: Evening Picnic

The Abandoned Vacant Lot Filled with Concrete Weeds sprout from the cracks, A sign reads it was once a place to heal creatures. All that remains is melancholy and "Hope Pears," Lying on the feverish black ground after scaling the tall fence. A clock that has stopped thinking, or perhaps for reflection, Stands motionless, hands pointing in the same direction without bending. It would be nice to have gum, to keep a semblance of sanity, It would be nice to have gum, to stay a bit less unhinged. Dusk pretends to offer the answer of life as usual, And leaves with an oblivious face. But I cannot blame, At least it gives some "meaning." Taking a bite of the pear, Juiceless, tasteless, except for bitterness. Trying to discern what it is through chewing, It disappears bit by bit with every bite, Leaving only a vague and undesirable presence on the tongue. "I'll come back," To have an evening picnic, To find hope in the dusk.