He Bit Into the Apple

He Bit Into the Apple

He bit into the apple, the maggots tasted vile,

the skin still shining, red with guile.

He spat it out, but not in shame,

more angered by the orchard’s name.

No warning whispered from the tree,

no hint of rot for him to see.

Just sweetness promised in the light,

a trick of day, a thief of night.

It might have been an evil curse,

his stomachache was getting worse.

It churned like something come alive,

a slow regret he’d not survive.

He clutched his gut and cursed the ground,

the leaves above made no sound.

The birds had left, the sky was grey,

and something old had slipped his way.

Not poison made by human hand,

but spite grown deep within the land.

A warning masked in fruit so sweet