My hands turn weary with fingers weak,as the fruit of knowledge I hold
in my palm grows bright and heavy,
It's vibrations reach far and wide,
reverberating inside my heart,
I hear my thoughts palpitate ,
their velocity on par with that of light,
crossing over from worlds real to imagined!

My words haemorrhage and gasp
for breath, but my tears flow like fuel,
Emotions, those finicky charlatans,
flood my being then leave me high and dry like the Zephyr in a desert doomed!

I wait for the choir to call upon me
singing a song of wistful bliss, but it never comes,neither does the night owl hoot to let me know that the magical hour is nigh and near;
the night is as dead as the site of my love!

No replies, no messages and no more
of those late night conversations
about how philosophy is life
and literature is love, or the mating rituals of dangerous females like widows in cobwebs or the Mantis' that preys and prays!

The only ritual left now is staring at you, stored inside this metal block of a fruit, made of knowledge and truths unwanted, that tells me I am indeed not needed, you remain the only seed inside here in this fruit that refuses to grow, that I won't let go!

To have you seen, and myself read, I will carry this wretched fruit of the damned, forever more,
even if I am to die from it's toxic heat waves,
Oh, I will carry this dastardly fruit to my last, even if it is to be the ghost who got ghosted!
© the_acataleptic