The Apple

He bruises quick, the soft
flesh bared to the air's waft,
never ripening for you,
only for himself, yet his hue
undeniably advertises him.
His pale insides dim,
an old bulb rashed with brown,
stained over with teeth marks, a frown
sinking into itself. A stem points
happily from his scalp above joints
clipped like Venus' phantom arms.
He knows he can be done no harm
and dives down into the earth
to thrust his skeleton hand up in rebirth.