Monday, September 29, 2014

Murder of An Apple


                                             


Murder of An Apple


Blood red,
tears my heart.
Trickled drops,
of pure pain.
Easily bruised,
but still crispy.

Harvest season,
the best time of the year.
Freshly picked by hand,
off an oak tree.

Round,
like a ball.
Sliced into pies.
Squeezed into juice.
Blended into cider.

A fresh aroma,
sweet as sugar.
Drifts towards my nose,
like bees to honey.

Ripe and juicy
Soft, yet firm
Fills the insides
Craving for more.

2 comments:

  1. Holy Cow this sounds like a professional wrote it!

    ReplyDelete

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