The Orchard

I started writing poetry in the apple orchard.
Scribbled in the sweet scent of rotting fruit in rain
The porus holes riddled with sneaky worms, out to greet the god of water, drowning in their faith.

And through those winding holes grew a home
And the hopefullness of the immortal nectar, a place to lay down and sleep.

The longer the worm resided the sweeter the old apple became
And with the sweetness you take
each munch bears less to eat.

Through this burrowing into the skin,
destroyed,
what she had so lovingly created as her own

And on the floor, a pencil, which left them both empty,
Innards soft to the touch.