Fruit has shriveled on the vine.
The harvest passed it by this time.
As it did the time before.
And prior times or three or four.
It’s shine, its life within, throughout.
Has been replaced with fail and doubt.
It’s left to waste on the vine.
Stays right there because its mine.
None would dare to touch that fruit.
Get caught in my ill repute.
It sits there just for me alone.
Despite how long I may postpone.
My tender twist from the vine.
Awaits a time when I feel fine.
When there’s calm in my head.
And worry leaves my rumpled bed.
When everything is okay.
Just so to be and, so to stay.
Seasons pass us by so fine.
Just me and this fruited kind.
I see I’ll never be okay.
The worry is my chosen way.
Its ripeness is so very brief.
The fruit was where I got relief.
I look, I reach, I shake the vine.
Now barren as a tangled twine.
I watch the place it grew before.
My fruit, it grows . . . there no more.
© 2021 TheRememberings Ltd.