Stranger Thoughts

Guacamole

as green as the leaves of a summer's tree.

ground, yet a delicacy.

creamy. 

butter-smelling.

texture on peak.

displayed in a bowl, with berries for company.

I mean aren't I a wonderful sight?

everybody loves me.

beloved to the Americans I will be.

isn't that a pleasure now?

but, 

beloved as I can be,

one fine day,

I see toast. 

the nemesis to my existence in this world occupied by fellow delicacies.

the doom.

approaches then, is a butter knife.

I pray the last of my prayers 

and bid my fellow mates goodbye.

*ten minutes later*

gulped in. 

swallowed.

deeper and deeper I travel.

holding the last strands of my existence, I slide down down down.

Oh! the alimentary canal of homo sapiens are a nasty sight, but a smooth ride.

wait, maybe because I'm creamy?

hours pass.

intestines absorb my flawlessly flawed existence.

crying out loud, but no one seems to hear. 

or know, even.

deeper and deeper.

then, what do I get to be?

the unhappy constituent of homo sapien faeces.

fate that I own.

poor me.

grateful for a blissful life,

I now rest in peace in the far end of a stranded sewage dump.

yours truly,

Guacamole.

*if only*

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