An Apple

A wormy apple dead and rotten
The insides filled with flame
The outside looks a crispy red
But nothing is the same.

It is corrupted into monster’s flesh
Each hole an echoing tomb
Where fingers greedily suck the juice away
And seal this apple’s doom.

Twisted under countless feet
It resents the ground and tree
For all this sweet fruit really wanted
Was to grown and thus be free.

So remember when you pick your fruit
The inside may be cursed.
For each of us have our own worms
Some bad and some
Way
Way
Worse.