Berries blacken in the bowl,
their scent no longer salivating
summer’s sweet seductions,
winter withers in the distance,
while fervent flies are fluttering,
wings flapping to the rotting
arousal of carnality lost
to natures once fair bloom.
Tastes are truly to the barer born.
Bitter berries are black in the bowl,
their flesh no longer fresh but
turned, they are turning
bruised attention to things
with darker tendencies,
igniting interest in insects,
finding themselves delicious
to diptera’s wavering wings
now deciphering detours
to decomposing juices of festering
fruits who’ve waned in worth.
Black berries, once in bloom,
are eager to be devoured
before their time dissolves.
Are we but berries
battling in this bowl of life;
thirsty to be tasted and tried
before we are aged and expired.
If only we could be grapes
that age in barrels and bottles.
All Words and Drawings by Damien B. Donnelly
Audio available on Soundcloud:
Damien B. Donnelly 