The picturesque blossom of a tantalizing tree,
With roots that drink the venom of the cold, hard, earth,
The fruit falls into my stubby fingers with a vow of authenticity.

Too young to sink my teeth into its flesh, my humanity,
Too obtuse to encircle its girth,
I gaze, enamored by the picturesque blossom of a tantalizing tree.

Its skin catches gleams of light that ricochet into the infinite obscurity
With an increasing infatuation I flee the innocence of my birth,
The fruit falls into my lengthening fingers; and my tongue savors the authenticity.

I chew with ardor, with the fury of the sea;
To my consort I offer a bite, with jovial mirth.
In concurrence we sink, deceived by the picturesque blossom of a tantalizing tree . . .

The rancor burns in my throat, I long to break free.
But without its sweetness, I fear, I will lose my worth.
The fruit lingers in the grasp of my fingers, which cling to all authenticity.

My bones succumb to a demonstrative plea-
For a route of escape, for a dingy firth.
The picturesque blossom of a tantalizing tree,
The fruit falls from my decaying fingers, a flickering flame of authenticity