An ending is never all there is,

the raisin proves this fact.

Shriveled, discolored, dull
a fingertip cut off for frostbite,
but weaker, softer
and with more a purpose than a dead bit of flesh.

Its vibrant green or red life has been cut short by the sun
a source meant to give breath to the lifeless, restore life to the dead.
Changed as paper is recycled into soil
given new purpose, maintenance of strength.
Different, yes, in look, taste, feel
but not in value
for most.

Where smooth, delicate skin once dammed its fruit,
a leather of binding
of ridges and valleys and no regard for conventional order.
The fat middle, dipping as a waterless pond,
surrounded by great, elastic mounds.
Or a withered and worn eye socket, wise in its imperfection.

Has the burden been lifted yet, or is it only hardened?
Viscera only remotely identical to its previous form
seeds scattered across the skin,
speckled as a robins egg of dirt, and not color.
And a volcanic gape, gasping for air at top, but equally trapped underneath.

Whether there is defeat or relief in its taste
something between savory and sweet, a melancholy sweet
as butterscotch or milk,
it has soon fallen of its own will.
Soft teeth, disguised as protective shelter
tear it apart before the tongue can protest
of its sublime taste.
Soon, it has become something else, something new.
And the cycle begins again.