Black plum
by Eric Nunnally
A heavy ball ripe,
black and round;
cold and wet
with morning dew...
Sweet within,
so smooth its skin:
to pierce the flesh is my desire.
Soft, crisp scent, night-purple skin,
the orange-pink flesh invites my sin...
and so then I embrace the fire.
Open wound, oh! sweet the juice;
petals now are open full.
Now within I drink my fill
and capture every waterfall...
The essence of thirst,
like a plum busted red,
is a very wet redness
searching for blue...
Here's your chance to be a critic! Please do! I welcome the feedback! Thanx again for stopping by!