Organic Poetry (an Ars Poetica)

An orange daintily plucked

from some admirable tree.

The liquid citrus mercilessly drained

with ease or with struggle.

 

The pulp tossed aside,

blended indefinitely

or obnoxiously present.

Its fate lying only in the hand of the juicer.

 

The party drinks,

measuring the sharp tingle with their tongues,

as the peel rests, worn and torn.

A faint smell of its pride lingering across the skin

 

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