I've already posted this in my journal, but I want to help get some shtuff up on the community.
The following is something I wrote eons ago, in June of twenty-oh-two.
My original intention was to write a poem, this was the result.
Apparently I should stick to haiku poetry.
The Grove of Me
In the grove of Me, there stands a tree. Among the scrabble of dry brush, malnourished saplings and stout shrubs, it stands tall and strong. In the everlasting dusk of the grove, it shines like the reflection of stars on the sea. It is a peculiar tree. Born of a vine lacking path and decision, conjoined with a rose afraid of the sky. Together they found reason and unity in life. Using the strengths of each other to reach higher, up above the rocky flats below.
Like all trees of great power and wonder, it bore fruit. Fantastic, and incomparable to any I've known. It could be held in my palm, although it commanded a weight unfitting of its simple figure. It flesh was a deep and shifting rouge, and smelled faintly of fresh sweat and spring. Always ripe and free of worms, it felt firm but gave to pressure, pulsing gently, to say it was alive.
Once bitten, it was a taste unforgettable. Inside it was hot, as if baked in the sun, with a myriad of juices, which gushed forth to meet my tongue and lips, steadily dripping down my face and neck. Despite its heat, it refreshed, rejuvenated, like the light of the tree itself. Eaten quickly and with fervor, or savored and sucked upon with lingering relish, it was always perfect.
The core of the fruit contained seeds of sickly white. Only twice did I foolishly ingest these, gagging from the taste of viscera and futures unknown. No, I wanted no business with these seeds, not now, although my heart knew of their potential. Instead, the seeds were tossed behind me, away from my sight, and my thoughts.
The seeds choked the stream that fed the tree, tainting its waters with tears and fire. The tree withered. The fruit grew heavy with rot and cracked the bows of the tree, the strength of the vine and rose could not resist the pull. Leaves fell to be forgotten in the wind, and the bark peeled back revealing tar and urine, the sweet sap seeking shelter in the roots.
I knew. The rose whispered, gasping, to the vine, and it dropped the fruit. The spilt juice washed away the bitter seeds; water flowed pure once more. My tree was whole. My tree stood strong. My tree was fruitless. In the grove of Me, clouds gathered.
I stand here now, weirdly cold in the warm glow of the tree. Hands and lips stained red with juice. I do not wish to think of the fruit. But I cannot forget its flavor. Flowers grow on mending branches, with the promise of new buds, and beckon me with their scent. I fear them. In the everlasting dusk of the grove of Me, I sigh, and I smile.