Apple

It sits there, the menace of ripe roundness,
Bursting with seeds, blood red and verdant,
Waiting, enticing, smooth grains draw my eyes,
Towards unending weakness of forever empty.

Now swallowed it sits sharp in poisoned stomach,
Juices straight to the vein, gums aching with action.
Ravaged heart lies alone, my core untouched,
It browns as it slumbers, indifferent to sweet earth.

by Amy Clements

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