Apple Piece

The pinnacle: several capsules surging with life, ready to burst, ready to destroy their casings and flourish in the freedom of our own casing...ready to surge with capsules. The mild poison of their molding could never summon doctors near, as they plunge: into the Earth, into a wasted cause, into you to undo what is done to them...to be forgotten, to bear those oval capsules. And even still, when alone and undisturbed, their static states surrender to their core; a prison for the poison and the reverence of someday. Strangely star-like but without an outward gaze into what surrounds their stability, jagged and smoothly sneaking through the center of its everything...only something...nothing more...only something...perhaps everything. Climbing spires carve into the flesh reaching for an escape...swirling strands of green veins, preserving the lifeline; no where to let go...except in the flesh...a gravitational wormhole of flavour lavishly swimming in a watery grave...unless devoured. Such fragility, such simplicity held between two spectrum; neither entrapment, nor freedom, but purely existing for the sake of existence...even though the flow of mere temptation shows no sign of sake, to the extent that its concerned sake is nothing...as is its extent. And so, as often as it does, temptation hides; the true lure of its nature concealed behind an emblematic masquerade...red skin, green skin, scarlet-with-a-dash-of-amber skin, bold and waxed laden shine skin, the skin of harvest, the skin of fall, falling down to hail the rotten skins that line the looming roots, falling down to hail the ground...to kiss a death from which life sprung...beside menacing roots; the descending outburst of a surging capsule...gushing with life...towards the sun...towards the molten core...towards the untouchable...towards the pinnacle.