The Rotten Fruit of Life,

A short little poem about the last few minutes of this man.

The clock ticks nearer to the few final precious
seconds - yet the minutes seem to fly with feathers
outstretched like a bird gliding in gracious
flight like dandelions in a field of heathers.

You have said your "nay" -
disputed and disproved fruitlessly
Men are but flesh and blood - gloomily
they know their doom, but not the day.

Shadows skip over skin and sight
like the ending credits fading into black,
life is just torture, loneliness, and damned plight
like death it takes and never gives back.

So, the final curtain falls
over rows of a'blazing fields
and full prison cramped walls
that cruelly takes space that was once tomato fields