Rotten Apples

The fruit on the ground. Blaming the tree. The white in the air. Condones my blindnes. As I instruct my eyes not to see. Shovels and sages. More accuracy than compassion. Pencils and scissors content in their wisdoms. Of wrsits. And scars. And other such obvious treasons.

I wasn't waiting. I just thought you might like to come along.

Where walls collide. Like torn paper dolls And fingers break against the calm. Of nervous blades. Too close to cut.

Imdebted to these suttering mountains which let me see.

Everything.

I bite into the world. Prepared for the sour. Stunned by the sweetness.