Rotten Apples (a poem)

Rotten Apples

It is only wise to be with people you love
To share in, part of your life, it pleases the soul,
It will please the soul more staying close to them,
For the soul wishes it is long and longs for it.
I have perceived this to be true, true enough,
To be surrounded by breathing and laughing flesh
That holds me as enough, to be who I am.
Yet so often we choice less, and less we get. There
Is nothing greater than touch, and the soft call
Of ones name. I’ve known so many curved necks
Folks, who listen and hope, pause and joke, freely
Bring depression onto others with their gutters.

It is the knees, the joints that convey curiously
And make a man or woman stay, with a rotten
Apple, as if it was duty—thus passes the days,
And more days and more days, until you’re dead.

The body knows when it has had enough, enough
Corruptness, defilement; it expresses the accounts,
On the face, in the heart, in the limbs, hips and wrists,
In the walk, in the knees, it bends one like cotton.

It’s all in the rotten apples, I hope you know, the rotten
Apples you chose to be with, love, live, grow, and endure.
You see, quality does not strike even through the sweet talk,
The cotton, it gives the souls of another perfect harmony—
It just doesn’t render to them, their wills, for long; if one does
It is her or she, whom become the sick ones, the beguile
—nameless.

2-14-2008/ #2251