I Am The Ghost Hanging From The Tree

Photo by the Author

Identity

I am the ghost hanging from the tree,
The uneatable fruit that no one shall touch.
The soil has tainted me;
A poison runs through my veins.

I can be seen from afar, exotic to some,
Toxic to others who gaze upon my form.
Of my flesh, they brew a poisonous potion —
I am the ghost, spanning aeons of history.

Adversity

I mutate, taking on many forms,
Yet my skin remains unchanged.
I am blackness, the darkest of the dark,
Visible, yet cloaked in invisibility.

They fear the colour of my skin,
But beneath lies enticing, fragrant flesh —
Luxurious, sweet, the epitome of deliciousness,
Growing from soil barren by design.

Deprived of water, my roots go deep,
Prising nutrients from hostile terrain.
Here, it seldom rains.
Yet I am of flesh and blood,
Shaped by struggle, scarred by disdain.