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.