Bruised Fruit

To herself she is
a bruised fruit,
moulding on the side,
passing through the stages
of corrosion and decay.

A spare fruit,
spoiling in the calm,
sitting on the lips
of thankless oblivion.

A ruined fruit,
rotting with the times,
Awaiting validation
as an item of consumption.

A wasted fruit,
aging past its use
withering in the light
of impossible love.