Bittersweet

Outside the city where the pomegranates grow is where my dreary muse must go to scout a tree that song-like speaks of scarlet fruit on Eden’s Eve. With blushing bulbs, one bushy shrub drones a dirge with leaning tongue: The ancient apple’s several seeds have pleased your buds with bursts of sweet that splattered 'brane with each wet bite and sprinkled earth with bane and blight. For once the fertile fruit is snatched the ravaged rind is quickly cast, the sacred seed, forgotten pith, full squandered pomegranate gifts. All have plucked, but pondered not the way a bittersweet will prompt. If you are such, from what I spoke then take your leave a different route. I took the fruit that’s left for dross. My muse has come to prize the loss. A First Line Prompt - Poetry Contest