The pristine glass fruit bowl,
Centre-piece of the room,
Failed to protect its inhabitants,
From the festering intruder of Time.
Fruit chosen once for their colourful charm,
And their subtle scents,
Now neglected sit, wasted and
Wiltering, not like flowers, but instead
Emitting an odorous fusty vapour
From wrinkled, disheveled skin.
Internally first, spiderous Time’s cancer is buried,
Its fine black threads seeping out, un-noticed
Until the fruit’s wrangled intestines,
Their inner debris, erupts
From the crusted crevices and pores
Which sprout green gardens of their own.
Only now has the burden of time
Begun to leave its mark,
The mark of age becoming more conspicuous,
Creeping up on the short-lived lives of victims,
Until that pristine glass bowl
Becomes a tomb for the carcasses that lay within.