Sunday, October 16, 2011


A musician am I,

A player with words

Some say it’s the poet

But I put them all to shame.

I go down the dirt road

To see what I can find:

A vender selling apples

A not too common sight.

I stepped to a basket

And grabbed one for a bite

I know the sweeter insides

As it is my favorite part

But without the bitter skin

The sweetness has no more appeal.

I take a seat

To watch the afternoon

Pass me by.

Before long I nodded off

And I dream I did comprise.

I gazed upon an apple

Which landed in my lap.

Its mother, I knew not where she stood

All I know is her baby

Fell from the sky.

The smooth skin I knew so well,

Though yet easily broken

To press it in any place leaves a bruise.

Not unlike a heart

I thought as

 I rolled the fruit

Between my hands.

Like a heart, that’s troubled love

Did press until a mark,

Was all that was left behind.

The bruise is not immediate

Show the mark, but only

To be found by gentle touch.

The wounds are sensitive

And if not remedied

Shall poison all the rest.

With many shaped and tones

It has many personalities.

The small blackened spots are old injuries.

They are tough and hard

They show experience and past.

It is beneath the dark surface

The sweetest juice is found.

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