Apples There are 3 apple cores by my side, And one in my hand. Each, With their own Distinctive taste. Each, With their own bitter last bite. The rose red apple in my hand Is slowly turning brown The single bite I’ve made A wound, in what was a perfect apple. Its juice dripping down my hand, So sticky, so perfectly sweet. The pile of corpses lie still While the storm rages on Both outside and in. I stare at them, rotting Trying to forget the bitter last bites Trying to find, the perfectly sweet pink lady. The first to be cast aside, Was a nice little apple. At that point I was happy, Too happy to even play With the thought of bitterness. She started out sweet But my friend enjoyed the taste too And it was he Who provided the first core. This apple was my first taste of pessimism A taste that has been in my mouth For quite some time since. The second was a strange looking lady. A single black leaf sat On her head. Like a fringe of coal-black hair. The entire time It was bittersweet And the more I bit into said apple The more I wanted. In no time, I had reduced it down to a core, The addictive bitterness And subtle sweetness. I could not get enough. Even now, I look for the Little black leaf, To try and find a similar apple. But after swallowing the last bite. The horrible aftertaste began. How I wretched and wretched, Wanting to vomit. Wanting to purge myself of Such sweet agony. But I couldn’t. As what must be a poisonous apple reached my stomach I curled up on my bed Clutching my gut. Trying to suffocate the intense inferno within. But the embers still remain. I then reached for my third apple With her pink cheeks, And shine. Surely she must dowse the flames Surely she must be sweet enough. Once again, I was wrong. As always it started out well, The red skin, the firm crunch And whilst the juices were cold They froze the pain but I too, began to freeze. My once warm core Froze over. And I became inhuman. After a while of sitting, The 3 cores at my side I thought it was time to try one more Before I leave. And here I am. A sweet, pink lady, A nice crunch, a shine, And everything I would like in an apple. Yet as I hold her, She dries, and slowly turns darker Against my wishes. For she is perfect, But too perfect for someone as inhuman as me. I now sit with 4 cores by my side. Disappointed at each. It was I who bought them And thus it is I, Who takes the blame. For now I’ll sit, Watch them mulch in my creaky old home. I’ll sit with the remnants of the first, the strange, the sweet and the perfect, And I’ll sit alone.