Bruised bitter apple: the horror! To roll across my tracks. Of the crab variety, we decipher what's in cider. Fright, how might, precisely, the worms persisted- when once flesh was tender enough? Now they are dead, the apple dented where butted their unsuspecting heads. When guts are made a graveyard, no Wicked Queen’s power overrules the external grotesque, or the royal inner circle’s internal damage, ringed like trees, like circles of hell. Sour taste, and, more importantly-- wriggling, struggling, self-pesticidal hopes and dreams. Unsightly to fit their environs. Some as parasites, but some only friends.