Poetry

Fruit of sin

By: Suveeksha Viswanathan

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

A towering ceiling fan,
an untrustable axle,
making my slumber
my last.

A rope cast round their neck,
felicitous ants floating
on a jar full of honey.

A placid, vile snake you were,
warm, loving scales coiling,
I the hen unaware.

A frolicking raven is to a wolf,
a hook to an eye.
An eye for a scrumptious meal
she had.

Lamenting for I too the same
he felt.
Bulwarks toppled,
a way to their hearts made effortlessly.
Money
into these voracious jaws I fed.
Now,
a twitching honeybee on the ground.
The poison of the nectar.
Life ebbing me slowly.

Readily digested,
the pitcher now awaiting.
An open operculum.
A stone to her mouth,
for her time too shall come.

Categories: Poetry

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