Hopelessness is an Unplucked Apple

Galore are the hung fruits.
Their ample flesh and roundness;
their cherub cheeks reddened
from the pinching of a breeze.
They are tapered to branches
dangling perfectly, prostituted
for their flavorful innards.
 

How the Gala’s put on a show!
Make way for the plow of the McIntosh!
The Johnathan’s and Bailey’s cat-call
the Red Delicious’s, wetting their lips.
The Rome’s battle with the Empire’s,
Paula Red’s and Ambrosia’s sit for tea,
and the Fuji’s dew is bottled and sold.
 

By late autumn, abundance shifts into
barrenness. Some dove into the green
abyss, some could not be nursed from
sickness and so died diseased, others
gorged by horses or aged too long,
and their arms crippled into bone.
 

At the end of the season lies only one;
suspended weakly and void of its pride.
Dulled, barely even a shadow
of what was once a ruby shine.
Destitute, forgotten, withered,
there is nothing left to it now,
as it is denied a merciful reaping.