/lit/ - Literature

Pomegranates sliced in half spill out
their blood-red seeds, while those uncut
conceal their trove in darkness: great
discoveries yet to be made.

But if the red-gold skin appears
desirable, look to the rind:
pale pulp that bears our deepest fears,

the architecture of the mind—
What is mere flesh compared to this?
A fleeting glance, the briefest kiss….

Still, someone must admit the sun
that ripens them…. Their rubies bleed—
A gentle knife-thrust spills the seed
revealed, at last, to everyone.