Day in the Life

You chose the plumpest Apple Eve

and juiced it, pulped it, so I grieve

that the spoils and core were taken

well before the world, forsaken.

I followed the dullest river out of Eden

and so now I'm even

all my victories ever since then

have merely been the running of men.

Trails and trails of stars and dust

lean across the sky at dusk

all that for a frightened day

upon a world, to then give way.

All the golden apples won

or the silver peach or plum

are stretched beyond the glaze of eyes

to their home in vacant skies.

Tell the world the heart is cold

when the clasping hand of fate is old

and reply, it must!, in shrivelled tears

encrusted on the cheeks of years.