Worm

And it crawled on

unaware

of its predicament.

Neon hue fading

like a setting sun.

Left for the garden

across a roadway

to its apple trees.

Their apples though

already taken.

Red apples

from dreams,

childhood dreams.

Oh, their wealth.

So the pursuit

march

drag

across the pavement bean, 

towards the garden.

Withering

on the pavement

no one offers help.

Midway,

but fading fast;

this is where most journeys ended.

Moisture evaporating

Perseverance pays

so they say.

Just look at the garden:

those apples--mansions. 

Reader,

You know the end;

it dies,

obviously.

But the delusion lives,

as persistent as the worm. 

Author's Note

first draft

Reviews

[...]

. is somewhat esoteric ... we are lucky if we get to pursue dreams ... not all of them are delusions ... they're often accosted for being delusions by the cynical and skeptical ... or maybe it's just me ... anyway, you write beautifully ... no doubt about that ...