Strange Fruit

Ripened to a golden brown,
I've fallen from my family tree on the breath of a prodigal son.
Slowly at first,
then gaining speed as life and the ground got closer.
Leaving behind brothers identically marked with scarred veins that pump dark juice
flavored with the struggle of those that grow ripe too soon.
Juice absorbed through thick roots that've withstood rusty axes of ignorance,
and misplaced love.

I've fallen to the ground...
to be mixed in with others like me
and those picked from trees weakened from youth
by Reality's calloused and clawed hands.
Placed into bushels that only give quick glimpses of the world
through jail like slits.

I've fallen to the ground...
bruised, beaten,
warm from my brother's exhaled fear...
fear of being stepped on by Oppression's unlaced boots,
and juiced for pulp-free culture.
Our seeds thrown to the uncaring wind like a dandelion's limbs tickled by a child's curiosity.
Our trees long forgotten.

And the sky, watching our plight,
cries for her lost children.
Weeping from sorrowful clouds that line her aged face and hid our fathers from us.
She cries acidic tears that we drink through our thirsty skin,
attempting to replenish what we cast off while free falling through reality
with only gravity to guide us.

So we open our pores,
drinking heartily from the sky
in hopes of re-planting ourselves,
establishing roots that become thick,
and sprouting love colored flowers from cherished seeds.
All before Life takes another bite from our tender flesh.

back