For the sweet peach that was me..
Now fermented in what is now a spoiled, rotten pie.
First, she grew beautifully
Firm and ripe
Sweet and juicy
Under the southern sun
She was plucked...suckled...dripping down the chin of experience.
Leaving only a bit to savor.
Yet that bit I thought I saved
Little known to me was being swallowed up and consumed
By the bakers who wanted to put me in a pie
And ship me off in a box
They bound me up
Letting me sit and fester
Until the maggots came to devour
They fed on my sweetness..my ripeness..my nativeness
Until they gorged themselves
And vomited out my pit, my core.
(Or what was left of it)
to stay trapped in the sugary sweetness of an ever baking pie
In an even hotter oven.
No Ice cream to top me
Just flies and mold
Then the roaches come
To feed on whatever is left..
the crust and crux of me.
Atlanta...this peach, your native daughter has outgrown you
I've go to go.