Apple of My Eye
The smallest sin,
still lingers where,
within your heart,
it hides, a seed.
To grow with doubt,
and fear and hate.
It gradually becomes,
a gnarled tree.
Upon such limbs,
grow wicked fruits
containing sins
committed since.
And though they taste
of loving care
they burn the gut,
and sting the soul.
Encased in love,
and feather lore,
the pain subsides,
and you want more.
Addicted hence,
forevermore.
To live with sin,
and die within.
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