A precious fragrant fruit,
In rough due time,
Becomes, a trumpled underfoot morceau of slime.
And, if it's lucky,
It will only wither
Becoming just a yucky
Lump of leather.
So, it's with love-
In time, it will
Exchange the hotness of a stove
For chilly still,
As hugs and kisses turn
To manacles and bites, and ashes in an urn
Of love long past-
Remember, mates- good things don't last.
