Rotten Fruit

Billie Holiday by Charles Hewitt, 1954

Each note raked bares rotten fruit,
Façades akin to her despondent toot
Staring in the faces of historic brute,
Wearied acceptance, blindfolded salute.

There is a novel in those eyes,
High notes submerged by skeletal cries
And age-old tales she outwardly defies
Lost within a chasm of sanctified lies.

Though caged, she sings with might
To capture momentary freedom’s delight
Swaying in that depthless strobe light
Before re-emerging into the desolate night.