Apples Under Gold – A Poem

There was something of a genius
about him
a hard wall eclipse
a spring I could not recollect.

Jaded and stoned he buys bouquets
equips an abbey
fermented berry flavors swirl
fragrant the cool air.

Militias draw the lines
but I never
count on them.

Let’s drink along the unmasking
collect the parlor man
a morose fool.

How he could outpace
a windstorm with single notes afloat
a steel string guitar
fruitfully sad.

You’re apples under gold
all bright and serious
and straying.

A bitter sun closes the day.

 

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