Apples

How amusing is the missing muse When I can't write on my true love Rather, I sit here and imagine The whereabouts, of Emma. I would be a liar If I told you that I never wonder About Emma and her shimmering shield Of anonymous perfection. It had been four days since I knew her As person and a woman Now she only resides In the stark cove, of a theory. In that sense, she is older than me... She has existed in mythology Or the hypothesis of pure love, Within the dust of a romantic codex. Her scattered remains touch everything Like one could say, like God would But there is something very different About the residual harmony, of Emma. The idea of existence as an idea Is something I will never touch But the apple fell on Newton's head So under a tree, I sit. I live in the shade and constant danger Of fruitful death from above Maybe Emma will suddenly appear On my mind In the form of something sweet... Like an apple.