The tree bears that fickle fruit;
slouched figures swaying in the midnight wind
like its leaves above the garden.

Ripe and sweet to the core;
never satisfied, and wanting more
as the sordid souls ignore
the elements beyond the door.

Hellfire ignites
and sandy scripture lies upon the bay,
like plastic bits of dogma
with infected red resin in its tray.
Rotting fingers of snakeskin
grasp at survival throughout the day.
Make the apple last
in cardboard crematories, they pray
the temptations of Eden away.