A ripe peach on a wooden table.
Rather than reach for it, I write poetry.
It’s never quite there anyway
and when I reach I’m back again
in my bare cell, empty-handed.
This poem is not much like a peach –
not within a country mile;
yet, it’s imbued with the scent of a peach
with which I must content myself.
A ripe peach on a wooden table
and I’ve thrown my life away
in pursuit of it; swallowed every tale;
followed the wildest rumors;
written down my confessions
for all to see. I’ve trusted You, Lord,
in complete ignorance for the reality
of its long-trumpeted,
promised, presumed reward.
O child of God, keep your faith confidential
and pray for Meher not to let you down.