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Each curve, an invitation to appease
some hunger deep within. The epicure
may see a flower’s fruit that’s sure to please
the palette but the mind remains unsure.
Its alabaster flesh awaits the touch
of teeth and lips or eager tongue to taste
fruition’s flavors; ripening that such
a sweet delight may seldom go to waste.
But colors fade; their crowns of gold or red
will dissipate with age from pleasure’s light
and in time’s wake, an aftertaste of dread
will fill the mouth. Such is an artist’s plight
to capture precious moments with their eye
and gift tomorrows with those seeds which die.