Fruit Poem by Harlequin Rose

Summer has always belonged to the children
poets bourne of insecurity
and righteousness
flowers of misfortune and fortitude
and more heart than any angel
they exist in their own imaginations
and drift between danger and a stop sign
they go to sleep
to the sound of gunshots
passing through graveyards
that nick the tombstones of passing generations
they want the truth
but its impossible
so they'll die searching for it...

like a birthing ritual
that yields seedless fruit.