The Apple Doesn't Fall...

I clutch the seams

that hold it

together,

but they die in my hands,

hands white and pale

from

anguish.

They unravelled by themselves

seemingly without

my help

nor my

consent.

Sitting here, wishing I had

some

rum to ease the

pain of losing something

so precious

that it became synonomous

with life

itself.

My mother did it, too,

putting all of her eggs

in a stranger's basket, never

bothering to weave

her

own.

The apple doesn't fall too

far from the tree

and from the looks of it

that is true of me

as

well.

Reviews

[Céce]

Wow, what a poem...it brings all the senses into action, and the simple and clean flow of words is beautiful. Thumbs up!