Mouldy Apples

Mouldy Apples

They arrived looking untouched,

their skins smooth and brightly dressed,

stacked together in quiet perfection,

appearing cleaner than the rest.

Nobody notices the beginning,

a mark hidden underneath,

small enough to overlook,

small enough to hide beneath.

Days moved without attention,

the bowl remained the same,

though inside the slow changing

was already making its claim.

White spread across red surfaces,

grey settled into the shine,

turning something once inviting

into a warning over time.

The smell no longer carried sweetness,

the air became thick and still,

showing how unnoticed things

can quietly bend the will.

Lift one and softness answers,

fingers finding what eyes denied,

discovering what looked untouched

had already changed inside.

One became another,

another became the whole,

until even the healthy ones

carried the effect of slow control.

The hardest part is remembering

how perfect they first appeared,

because damage often enters softly,

long before it is feared.

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