Crushed Fruits

The floor is strewn with

Juice and the pip of the fruits

Like an old hag's spells scattered all over

counting her last breaths.

The apple, the mighty one looked whole

But the rear end of it scourged badly

The grapes that adorned the pretty basket once, now reduced to a pulpy mess

The orange, its sections spread all over

Now devoid of its juices.

The banana presently reduced to a grounded coarse chutney

The juice from the pomegranate seeds draw weird figures on the wall

The strawberries distorted

The peach skewed.

Some of the pieces of these fruits

Stuck to the chappals which walked

On this very floor

Or carried by the stylish stilettos

Or crushed further by the flat soles

Of the shining shoes recently polished

The owner cursing the fruits.

But it wasn't the fruits who fell by themselves

Someone threw them and stomped them in anger and frustration

The cleaners moped and wiped the floor

To restore the old clean sparkling look

Must be the little scoundrels they thought

Or it could be

Some unknown ghost

Or a frustrated deranged soul from the party.

Knocking his fury out at the innocent fruits laid out on the table as part of buffet

When I look at all of that mess, I wonder

Aren't we the crushed fruits

stomped by a giant foot called....

LIFE.