Not the Apple of Her Eye

The suitor, windfall apple, bruises, rots,
When he has left the tree. I'm on the
Ground. My thoughts grow dark.
She doesn't love me, never did. It's
Best for me to let the stem be broken,
And to fall away, as I have done,
To molder here, than to attempt
To stay attached. She'd let me, but
She needs to grow. So sweet is she
Who never loved me, I mistook
Solicitude for what I wanted, but
Was not, and, now, I must return
Her gift by letting go and crashing
To the ground to bruise and rot.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 56 times
Written on 2015-12-08 at 00:42

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