Where Pomegranates Grow
Outside the city where the pomegranates grow
I vainly seek from the dogged strains of time,
a moment to hide in, under limbs hanging low,
and by chance, or the devil’s cunning, find
courage, as welling seeds inward and bound,
but bleeding, weeping their intoxicating blood;
ever so rarely, under Heaven’s smile found,
possessed by low creatures, a-wallow in mud.
Then in such possession, enveloped so neatly
as roaring winds and biting sands gnash the air;
with confident eyes, focus intently and sweetly
on the blossoms, those blossoms, everywhere.
The whisper of death rustles limbs hanging low
outside the city where the pomegranates grow.
4/30/16
For Contest: First Line Prompt
Hosted by: Julia Ward
Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2016
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