by andrea peters
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
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I see the tree with the branch, high up,
Teetering in the wind
Blown about by storms and hurricanes,
Barely hanging on.
But still hanging on.
I see the fruit, itís present,
As it is offered to me
With silent pleadings for someone, anyone, to find itís last gift.
Itís only gift.
It summons me like an advertisement I am compelled to read and so
I drum up the courage to climb up the slippery husk,
Whilst looking downward at the growing distance of the ground,
With the knowledge of the pain that could occur with a simple slip
Just a tremulous reverberation from deep within by the being which desperately wants to share.
And still, I climb.
I know that should I fall - it will hurt. That I could break my soul, my heart, myself
And be cast down against the jagged rocks of my own doubts Ė of self-worth
As they stare and tell me ĎI told you that you werenít worth it.í
And yet I climb on. Up through the most difficult part and then I walk like a trapeze artist along the limb
In order to reach out and touch the gift that must be shared. The gift I know exists.
The gift I know is offered for those with courage enough to take it.
And I have that courage.
I think I do.
I grasp the fruit, the reward.
I take it in my hand and marvel at its sweetness, its pureness, the completeness of it.
And while I stand in amazement upon that branch, a long way from my own safety,
I start to feel the tremor rise up from the being
and my feet start slipping.
I tell myself that the soul is afraid, scared by the unknown, frightened by the unfamiliar Ė which is I, as I hold itís essence in my hand.
And as I fall unprotected
to the hard ground of reality.
The ground comes oh too quickly, and I feel the first stabs of pain as they shoot through my body and mindÖ and heart
And I look at the fruit which I grasped as I fell, as it rolls from my hand unloved, not by me unloved, but by itís owner,
I watch it as it careens to the puddle of mud, which dirtyís it, cheapens it
Until it is no more a treasure, a gift,
but now only a common bruised piece of fruit, from a soul that was too frightened to trust.
Lying on my back, broken and shivering, I gaze skyward towards the heavens and look for reasons
For the tremor
That made me fall.
And yet the ones that rain down upon me, from the being, do not help my pain to go away.
Perhaps time will heal the wound,
And the scars will give me strength to try again.
If only I can forget this anguish that devours my soul.
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|Reviewed by Frances Seymour
|Andrea, I read this as a graphic description of the strongholds of sin and the results of surrendering to its fabricated beauty...only to spiral downward in despair once bitten. Great writing! Blessings...Frances|
|Reviewed by sarah playle
|Reviewed by Tracey L. O' Very (Reader)
|This put me right there anxiety fear and all. Great poem and message.
God Bless you and your family
warm and happy holidays and all days
|Reviewed by jude forese
|lots of intense images and powerful conclusion ...|
|Reviewed by *Zella * (Reader)
|Time does heal. Long poem and I read it all. This needed to be long. Mighty nice!|