Imagine a warehouse of apples with their individual conciousness.
They are labelled and categorised.
They are segregated.
The apples are gathered and put into boxes marked
by what they want to be known by,
their commonality/mentality.
If a bushel of apples are a stigma, they are put into boxes marked by what the other apples tag them by.

In a self-marked box, by the name of “surat zayifa” an apple lays at the juncture of the pyramid of analogous red,
maggots eating away at it’s heart.
The apple turned crimson hued to an evangelist blood maroon. Smouldering; festering like an open wound.
A stinging aura besieged it,
suffocating the air like sharpnel stuck in the throat.
The apple, consumed by a dark resurgence and a devilish resolve,
spoke in tongues of the serpent and supplanted seeds of pestilence in the hearts of the apples who joined his brooding virtue.
A collective conciousness was supplanted among the fruit,
imprinted with the face of death.

The world of apples, thrive on each other and face the forebodings of life together in spite of their marked differences in a state of throbbing dependancy.
The apples feed on the apples.
Another self-marked box, by the name of “khalas” were set to consume the apples from “surat zayifa” to continue finity,
unwary of their poisoned souls.

The apples fed on the apples and almost every other apple rotted and perished.
The apples that survived were the ones who consumed the apples unblemished in spirit.
All the others apples from all the other boxes blamed “surat zayifa” as a whole.
Even the apples purest, were tainted by the sins of the other apples,
the ones to take the blame for the misdeed of their creed.
The box was now marked in disgrace, a vehemence, a scourge.

The last remaining poisoned apple that was set to perish from “khalas” did something morally unhinging before it’s spirit departed;
the apple smeared it’s tan blood with words on the cardboard and dropped dead.

The singular light bulb flickered, the pulse strained.
Everything fell silent.
The words read “ We are ourselves. We **** ourselves.”

The biochemical snow emanates bopping dejected the extended, short existences of winter,
Twisting and wandering in knee deep whiteouts that scream and moan,
The chemical spirit, at first light mildly falling in inverse star-shaped fragments,
Beseeches virtue before the wheezing shovels, the scraping ploughs,
The ghosts departed back to air in a crystal tune,
A triad stinging from the bare breach in grade school melodic period.

From the willowy walkway down the timbered trajectory,
Snowflake burdened branches combinate into a rhyme with the masked sun,
The raw, stripped light in overdue the hemlocks,
Stillness shattered only by the cracking cold.

The rivulet is icy over, yet liquid runs,
Underneath, under, deep in its veiled preserve,
Life, the anonymous shadow,
Scuttle’s from stone to stone,
Mingling up a smidgen of gravel from its silent inactivity.

it's how we deal with
everyday life that makes us
who we really are



*s.q.