Fruitless Voyage

Walking down an emerald carpet of Bermuda grass
One July afternoon, when the sun was at a critical point in the sky,
Throwing light on everything in view, and making shadows
Scurry fearfully to the far corners of the world,
I decided to pick some fruit for an excursion.

There were trees surrounding me on either side,
Peppered with ripe, transcendent oranges,
And the verdant walkway stretched on almost indefinitely,
Terminated far in the distance by a blue thread of ocean on the horizon.

Oranges, big as my heart, or a clenched fist,
Floating like haloes above saintly earth,
Ornamenting the lane for my passing.
I plucked them voraciously, stripped bare their spongy skin
And sank my teeth into their supple flesh,
The juices searing thick and warm down my chin.

But as I went I must have disturbed their holy meditation
For speckled bruises of brown progressively dotted their skin like leprosy,
And their martyred blood soured like forgotten milk.

I spat their remains in abhorred disgust,
And clawed at the trees in desperation
Ripping and discarding oranges like a second nature,
And then I broke into a fervent run down the path.

I thought the sea would never come,
But I gaze now before a dimensionless blanket;
My feet are tremulous on the cold uncertainty of sand,
My hands are empty save for the clinging remnants of orange pulp,
And the sun surrenders to the twilight, and across the ocean
A dead black silence looms for an eternity.