My Pomegranate

Survival is not experience.

 It’s luck — pure chance.

And every day I feel

the devil digging his heels into me

 one

 step

 at

 a

 time

 until my

 tattered,

 wrinkled

 soul

 is all that’s left behind.

And even then,

 on the boat ride down,

 I’ll give my gold coins

 to the cloaked gentleman

 and jump out —

 let myself float about.

I wonder:

 when an angel falls,

 do they burn up

 before hitting the ground?

Life is too short to just say,

 “oh well.”

Persephone,

 you are so lucky

 to live in both the sun’s warmth

 and winter purgatory.

I’m thinking:

 if I’m lucky

 in this dark cave

 I’ll find the forbidden garnet fruit

 you craved.

But I won’t be selfish like you.

 I’ll share it

 with all the fallen angels.

 And our bruised bodies will

 gorge with the seeds —

No heels or soul,

 above or below,

hold any power.