Crows on apple trees
At the fruit
Like the hollow emptiness
At my insides.
Who knew that I would feel so lonely?
Why am I not happy?
And the chill wind bites
And I twist and contort myself into different shapes
To try and fit into molds that don’t, and never will
Crows, the crows-
And the loneliness gnaws
And the apples all fall and rot and
Turn to mush until they are run over
By semi-trucks and convertibles alike.
Down to the core.
Rotten, both inside and out-
And there is no remedy.