Dried Apricot, or Friday Lunch

I nestled my teeth into the flesh of a dried apricot,
Squishy, not firm,
Sweet, succulent, favored fruit,
And I bit into a bone.
My thoughts were these:
How the sweetest things in life always have the bitterest of endings;
Why I always desire to be the person I once was, rather than the person I am now;
How the most promising of beginnings can yield the most horrifying conclusions;
How the normal course of events can become upended in an instant;
And of how I must now content myself with being a sad poet,
Noting these dismal observations, and shaping the language in a way that effectively communicates them,
And extracting for the world sublime truths from what seem like the blandest of occurrences.