There are things withered up inside of me.
Dehydrated memories
Sit like apples under a tree,
And not even the wild things
Would touch them.
They dried up slowly,
Not from the sun in the sky,
But because of the season without rain.
And then the maggots came.
There are things withered up inside of me.
And I am sitting
Under the tree from which the apples fell.
And I am drying up slowly.
But not because of the sun in the sky,
Or the season without rain,
But because I refused to eat the apples.
And ate the maggots instead.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
There are things withered up inside of me.
Dehydrated memories
Sit like apples under a tree,
And not even the wild things
Would touch them.
They dried up slowly,
Not from the sun in the sky,
But because of the season without rain.
And then the maggots came.
There are things withered up inside of me.
And I am sitting
Under the tree from which the apples fell.
And I am drying up slowly.
But not because of the sun in the sky,
Or the season without rain,
But because I refused to eat the apples.
And ate the maggots instead.
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