The Apple From The Tree
Why can't I put into words our connection, our vacancies, our loss.
I feel as though if I don't think on you,
or speak of you,
An apparition, dissipated in pure dust.
Call me a missionary,
because I shall be granted the notion,
to spread around your words of distrust and disgust.
It's in the family lineage isn't it?
I'm next to follow on your erroneous, misguided path of destruction.
And I am ashamed to say that our minds were in sync,
Every thought you uttered came straight from the Devil's mouth.
Oh, the things I would hear!
As if they flowed straight into my left ear.
And that's when I wonder about the proximity of my apple,
to your tree,
How far did I roll?
Did I roll at all?
The world proclaims that I rolled just about a hundred miles away,
Yet my fear is that I may have never left your trunk.
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