Hate is the hard stone inside the peach,
rough-ridged bitter-brown beveled pebble,
nested in its red-wrenched stained flesh recess.
There revealed snugly hateful, so ungrateful,
a broken red strand once connected to the fleshy gland;
this bitter wood-wet stone hard unyielding.
Eat the plump yellow orange perfect-pink flesh;
the juice of love and life flows over the mouth
but beware when talking and biting north to south.
The tongue brush lingers on the lush cushion,
teeth graze the grit through the flesh mesh;
biting, nibbling, circumnavigating the stone,
all is left is this bitter bone, this carion stone.
Gone the flesh, underneath feel the tension,
the hateful truths, the hard stone of contention.