A Pomegranate, but a beating heart.

The skin, a husk of carmine, scarred and worn.

Seeds like blood-red moons, they pulse and contort;

Mere gems of quiet suffering reborn.

Divine is the fruit of fragility. 

The Pomegranate: symbol of the womb,

Of Persephone’s plight, in shadows’ plea.

So opened with care, must each be consumed.

But in greed and lust he pries it out quick.

Jewels all torn out, his mind wide awake;

Crook’d calloused claws coated in blood so thick.

Palms now stained with hunger’s bitter ache.

He draws the heart near, his senses gone numb.

The  thump.    thump.      thump.      has stopped. The end has come.