Malnourished and battered, he shades himself beneath a tree of oak
Worn from the arduous weight of responsibility
Sunken eyes and filthy hair, baking in the sun
Among the rotting, sickly sweet perfume of tender fruit deferred past its peak
It sinks deeper through the dirt
Decomposing into soil around his tattered heels
A smell that nauseates him but amplifies his growling intestine
Foul corpses lay among him, tempting a moments satisfaction
To relieve the pain of being a beating heart wrapped tight in flesh
Fighting against the black staining his exposed legs
A newly ripe pomegranate glistening at him from above
The sweetest taste he can fathom an arm's reach from the pit
But too weak to stand he admires from a distance
As the festering pulp claims him as its own