The Ripening

 
This brooding and beating,
This bludgeoning and bleeding,
Tainting my flesh in hues of blue and black.
Like the fruit that is rotting,
My insides are sodden with the wretched stench of woe.
This breeding and seeding,
It's so misleading,
For who would wish to remain?
Procreation is devastation,
And mating is sating our lustful desires,
While dying we continue to grow.
So splendid, this madness,
Not inspired by sadness nor misery,
But rather the cold.
The fruits of our labor,
The ones to be savored,
Are sweetest when ripened and old.
Detached from the tree,
The descent is so free,
Serenity blacking out.
The sudden halt,
Is only my fault.
This grave awaiting me.
This blossom is rotten,
Wilted and forgotten.
Plagued by ghosts,
This disfigurement begotten.
These voices, they're choices,
It's best not to boast.
They stain me, they claim me,
I am the parasites host.