Wasting Away

Though my soul should mature
like fruit on the branch
of wisdom,
my green skin
ripen red with sugar
born of the summer sun
of time,

I slough soft with rot
on the vine of indulgence,
pale a sickly shade
mottled brown with decay.

How will I become your prize,
the sweet fruit
you pluck from your tree,

when I ferment
myself drunk
on poison excreted
by that swollen worm
of obsession
feasting on me
from the inside?

By your harvest time,
I will have dropped
from tree to earth,
a moldy stem sole vestige
of my once solid flesh.

Scott Speck
04/05/2002