I have peculiar bark on my long tree legs,
it grows in layers.
When I was eight, I was a fresh baked apple pie.
My mother never told me why, but I know
it was because of the tears.
My tree legs drank them every day,
while mother explored my cold sweats.
She picked them off my forehead with
smiling fingertips. Eager for discovery!
She poked through my warm crust, straight to my soft apples,
spoiling my fruit,
rotting them with her murky breath.
I was an apple pie
until the world never died.
I realized, at that precise moment,
that I was a foul smell;
putrid. I had dried up and crumbled.
There was nothing left for me but
these long, strong tree legs….
You create a heavy contrast between what was and what is in this story.
Another wonderful poem. There is something about the way this poem comes together I feel like I’m chewing on something. Strange. Could be because of the word choice, images or line breaks. Either way, thank you!
Thanks for reading friend! And for the comment!
odd metaphors. I like it! I kind of wonder if you’re referring yourself to an apple tree for the most part? Interesting though.
I might have hit the like button, but how could I say I “liked” it? I appreciated it. Lots of strong, original images. You bring darknesses into the light–an important bit of work. If cancer isn’t removed, it causes death.