Rotten Fruit

Rotten fruit will fall on its own.

No hand need pull it to the ground.

Plentiful harvest won’t be known.

Crows and maggots will feast around.

Silence echoes through barren trees.

Orchard dies like a quiet tune.

Death, decay carried on the breeze

beneath the summer sun of June.

I walk away–leave vengeful thought,

letting nature take all the blame.

A lesson that karma has taught:

ripe and rot often taste the same.

Blight and mold thriving where it fell.

Flesh disappearing into dirt.

I need not cast a single spell

to ensure misery, more hurt.

Peace blooms now where my feet tread light.

Path I’m tending is mine alone.

Festering crop fades from my sight.

Blossoming into self I’ve sown.

Bitter fruit will wither and fade.

I grow tall, untasted, unsplayed.