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.
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