Poetry

Of apples and hearts (draft)

A weight of years until the apple seed grows,

wrapped in the anger of a thousand

wrongs,

yet once the tree matures and

swells with fat, succulent

globes,

the juice extracted is so sweet

that to savour it must surely

poison.

Polishing the red skin makes it glow

as vibrant a ruby as the dying

heart;

the white one takes a bite

and falls down a grave of

spirals.

But for all its power,

not even that can break the molten

hurt

residing in the chest of the gardener.

 

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