Clementine – (A short story, written as poem)

He sat down on his comfy chair
The sense of regret was everywhere
He squeezed the Clementine to see if it was ripe
He wished this was another night

The small fruit tendered gently in his hand
This night had not gone as planned
The radio turned on to change the mood
How tonight could he think of food?

With all that had gone on and with what he had seen
With what others had done and with what he had been
Now he sat with a Clementine
The radio and a glass of wine

How did this happen?
How did we get here?
With all the hope surrounded by fear

No one will listen
No one will believe
He will be found guilty
No sense of reprieve

He slowly peeled and looked at the skin
All those segments contained within
All the veins, the oils, the juice could squirt
He still saw her face under the dirt

He peeled it gently all in one go
What else those hands did only he would know
With each movement there slipped his time
Slowly slowly, the Clementine

With each hand he would reveal
All the truth, him holding the peel
There in his hand all the segments of his deed
The fruit intact but his heart would bleed

Now in half he disposed of the rind
How he hoped they would be kind
It would have to end, he couldn’t take any more
The Clementine fell, footsteps up to the door

Mark Scotchford © 14/07/2014

About markious72

Here I wish to let my strange and vivid imagination and opinions run wild. I do hope you like what you read. I would love to be a writer, I won't pretend otherwise. Although it is only in the last couple of years that I have realised it. I guess if it meant to happen it will. Happy reading, happier writing. :-)
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