Strange Fruit

What hangest there, ‘midst corpses cold?
Strange fruit ‘pon trees of bone, so old.
A taste of poisoned flesh, tho’ spoiled,
The nectar from within like oil.
Amongst the unnamed tombs, so bare,
Strange fruit, so pregnant hanging there.
Dark shadows cast, bone orchard limbs,
As fingers pointing out thy sins.
To tread amongst the ghostly trees,
Strange fruit is seen where once were leaves.
What rotting bodies roots do find?
That pry and search, the earth to grind.
Where bodies buried, crying done,
Strange fruit will ripe, despite the sun,
And when we come, and lay to rest,
What birds will fly to make their nest?
And so whilst moon does show its shine,
Strange fruit will blossom, over time.
Where dead do lay, for years and years,
I’ll water roots, with all my tears.

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Buried

I came across the first verse of this in some old notes of mine. I obviously had this as an idea, but then it lost it’s way. Now I’ve completed it. For those that notice this sort of thing, it’s the second in three that is about death. Not to worry, my mind is not in that place, but the theme between this and The Man Who Died Alone is for some reason, common. Still, I hope you like this one.

I see,
From within this soil and
Dirt removed,
These people here to mourn.
Such life I’ve lived,
But now in dark
I lie enclosed,
Forlorn.

I hear,
‘pon sighing breeze that chills
My bones,
The lamenting cries of death.
No more the joy
Of laughters song,
The sweetness of
A breath.

I taste,
With moulding tongue in
Dusty mouth,
The bitter burn of loss.
To leave behind
This peaceful shore,
The river dark
To cross.

I feel,
With growing chill that
Creeps upon,
The dark eternal sleep.
To now depart
This mortal coil,
And pray my soul
To keep.

In Death

’tis not the dark
that scares me so;
for in darkness
the light of your
sainted face would
glow the brighter
for it.

’tis not the silence
that frets me so;
for in silence
the music of your
voice so sweet would
bless the quiet
with it.

’tis not the cold
that worries me so;
for in the chill
the warmth of your
touch so dear would
melt the ice
before it.

’tis not to be still
that panics me so;
for in stillness
the spark of your
powerful lust would
shake my body
in yearning.

’tis only one thing
that petrifies so;
in death timeless
the memory of your
encompassing all would
leave me lost
in mourning.