Rotten Apples

It is only wise to be with people you love

To share in, part of your life, it pleases the soul,

It will please the soul more staying close to them,

For the soul wishes it is long and longs for it.

I have perceived this to be true, true enough,

To be surrounded by breathing and laughing flesh

That holds me as enough, to be who I am.

Yet so often we choice less, and less we get. There

Is nothing greater than touch, and the soft call

Of ones name. I've known so many curved necks

Folks, who listen and hope, pause and joke, freely

Bring depression onto others with their gutters.

It is the knees, the joints that convey curiously

And make a man or woman stay, with a rotten

Apple, as if it was duty-thus passes the days,

And more days and more days, until you're dead.

The body knows when it has had enough, enough

Corruptness, defilement; it expresses the accounts,

On the face, in the heart, in the limbs, hips and wrists,

In the walk, in the knees, it bends one like cotton.

It's all in the rotten apples, I hope you know, the rotten

Apples you chose to be with, love, live, grow, and endure.

You see, quality does not strike even through the sweet talk,

The cotton, it gives the souls of another perfect harmony-

It just doesn't render to them, their wills, for long; if one does

It is her or she, whom become the sick ones, the beguile