They grow thicker,
longer, stronger;
they grow leaves,
birds come and lay on the tips,
each chanting a melody, different in taste;
the wind helps to record
the whistling of the morning;
of the dawnings, a grail
for a realize and beckon
take hold of the branches,
holding you hostage.

The birds come and go,
a fuzzy, warm chirping;
the crickets start screaming,
the chirpers have vanished;
they've turned into dark
and unknown, stabbing beaks.

At the center of it all,
an alarming red bulge
pumps the sun's golden blood
into our every root;
the apple's pride shines
with every dawn that goes by.

Nature, it grows old too.
Time runs and looks nowhere,
the chants are now logical:
a pentagram whose notes
drew long gone smiles;
tall and short figures, virtuous voices
sung a screeching, echoing tune of old.

The apple rots,
the branch is weakened,
numb.
The apple falls.
Holed, bitten.
Begotten, frail and forgotten.
A black worm infests it
like a pungent, stabbing dagger.
Its wound whistles a cold cry of pain,
a farewell whine;
a final goodbye.