The rose of love withered on the vine In lifeless disposition she'd remain Her syrupy nectar slowly did decline A bewailing sorrow in ending twain No recapture of a past happiness The petals perished browning to dark Disappearing elation's gleefulness A flower's heart minus her loving spark Without the touch of fondness on the bloom Her brilliant brightness faded well away Those wondrous days were replaced by gloom Sombre melancholy of saddest pall's shay As dusk's hour turns to the dying closeness Reflect on the rose's mood of dimness
Fruit goes off. It gets mushy and smelly, losing its colour and beauty - losing its taste, eventually drying out, losing all resemblance of what it once was, only good for waste.
But fruit nurtured by a master grower, a seasoned gardener, fruit watched and watered til ripe and at its peak, this fruit is harvested, fermented, blended til building to a fuller physique, brought to full maturity til ready for the table and the banquet where no one's poor and no-one is able to maintain a semblance of meek.
- where the gardener and the wine maker, sit at the top seats smiling their blessing. And the table branches out giving room enough for the whole family gathering.
And the feast to end all feasts begins.
John 15 - I am the true vine. Galatians 5 - The fruit of the Spirit. A mash up.