Apple Cores

April 26, 2012

Wrought in lead, a papier-mâché casket

buried beneath mud with forms unspoken.

A throb knocking between stone and mallet

inscribes: here in lies… a cheap, godless slogan

without life or reason, only because

one came in another like wood ejecting Trojan.

A concrete fortress will have flaws

as dirt turns, cement raises Earth—

long-winded and open jaws

uproot dandelions screaming for rebirth

while gusts tear seeds apart to dust. Flowers

fated to curse rocked land and still birth.

May one follow the cruelest month’s showers

and sprout in the shadow of red oak stood

still in the future resurrected as towers,

find water and drink fast then, as plants should

soak up light dripping through veined leaves to ground,

where day laborers come to collect pulpwood.

 Axed trunks splinter jungle creature sound,

imperial forests left stumped in silence

by talking macaws lost and never found.

The dead tree once lived gives ordinance

as saplings grew underneath its branches.

Its death, transformed scripture’s  reverence

for the living prayers designing churches

from gold to bring salvation.  Alchemists

preach, yet hear out truth as nothing—but noises,

kept bound in a book with calloused fists,

ready to battle those dropping apple cores

atop coffins sunk into soil’s quieting mists.


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