On that morning, you smudged the horizon with a hand caked in mud
And from that murky dawn came a seed weightier than any bond
You swallow it, fearing no rood lattice can bear it
And from that seed swells a bristling radicle, pulsing
As it weaves into the marrow, it pumps branches like blood
And yields the strangest of fruits, a silver pomegranate with latent layers
Each skin a darker hue than the first until there lies a center so putrid,
That every tear, every breath, every drop of sweat reeks of that acidic bulb
So that no lover, no friend, no foe should ever see it, lest it’s unveiling
Prick the eyes of the beholder and the thickest of fig leaves sprout
To shield your face from that shattering disillusionment