Apple, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Apple

Most perfect of its kind on the table.
Beauty of such proportions do I mull.
To resist a bite not sure I’m able.
In my rapid heartbeat there is not lull.

Do I dare to hold it softly in hands?
To move it towards my hungering lips?
For such a sweet delight there were no plans,
Reality of this must come to grips.

All control have I admittedly lost,
Knowing my thoughts are surely to anger.
Must consume this beauty at any cost,
Burning desire can no longer deter.

Yes, the sweet flawless apple I did eat,
There will be penance for this tasteful treat.

Leave a Reply