Balance

Sorbet    The pomegranate sorbet he

peeled in blood red curls,
And reveled in the pungent sweetness of the whirls,
And yet she would not take this icy fruit unladen,
But mixed instead vanilla, white as milky maiden.

He watched her stir them carefully a twixt,
Although if alone vanilla only she would’ve fixed.
The rivulets of red and white so painted,
A love forever hopelessly thus tainted.

Advertisements

About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s