The Hamlet Project

Put me in a canning jar
Boil me in a pot
I am no longer the bright succulent fruit
Hanging from the vine
Fear has reduced me
Like heat and a sugar solution
To my very essence –
I will taste good in winter
When darkness and cold would keep me from growing
But I am boiled down
Bits of bone
Bits of stone
Bits of gristle and terror
In amongst what was once my personality.
What use is personality in this heightened moment?
No, I am naught but Fear Preserves.
A jam of the jammed.