The mossing stone down high hill rolls
Pulpy juice drips: water, shaking wrists
Bright fruit peel slit, his love anolled
No bearing zest for the man who'll never know.

While seeking souls and steel flagpoles
he waves endless surrender: "Please remember
My love, compassion reaches beyond me
Silence! Please! Let me weep for your hypocracy."

As the man glances in foggy windows,
Screeching loudly, begging once again
while pouring pulp into the burning holes
While shopping eternally for honest souls.

- Tarinn Lee Demira, She who asks the important questions, like,
"Wouldn't it be funny if fruit screamed when we bit into it?"

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Arios, in the year 219 MA.