Poetic Atrophy

 

Lie there, fool amongst the fallen leaves,

As I ponder on much sweeter fruit.

Only when thy broken hand no longer brings

Affliction to thy luscious words of lore

May thee rise then. Or shalt thee

Merely laugh in bodily hurt whilst

I twist thy loss of words further still?

Yet thou canst not yield the fruit of labor...

So lie there amongst the rotting leaves.

At least they would wither and wilt,

Unlike thee whom persists when thy words

Would fade with the color.