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Turned

a poem

By G. Douglas KerrPublished 3 years ago 1 min read
Turned
Photo by Allec Gomes on Unsplash

That Season turned

and with it the perfection of the fruit.

Sun-stretched and toned,

soon bloomed sugars ripened past their date

the added age

took sweetness from too patient mouths,

each day inching -

withering with over-reach.

One fruit touches

another of its kind

and spreads the spoil

tarnishing the lot.

The taste is lost.

What’s left is rot.

heartbreak

About the Creator

G. Douglas Kerr

I am a hermit and sometimes come out of my shell.

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