Stench

Dark red, luscious apples felled from her own tree long ago
Under the beaming sun plummeted with a soft, aching blow

The sweat drips and plops, scruple over a furrowed brow
Upon the discovery of rot that blackened her plow

“Has the wind gone mad–or am I the one insane?
Dirt and grime, high dry–surely the only way to explain”

Denial among hatred, she could not face–but under the murk, bits
Beneath, the snakes–surly and shabby—placed high their bids

The heat danced faster as the days passed far less paced
Her blonde hair bleached and pruned, but left one space

The temple on her right seemed blank and bruised
As a failed blow far too long past was nearly used

The magazine fell as she begins filtering the rot past her mind
She screams, shouts, yelps and cries, sobs of an animal forgotten by time

“I never meant for this to go–go and blow up like this!
I never meant. . . I never meant for me to hurt our kids.”

Too far from gone she was, behind silken white bars and drenched in ammonia
“I know, my love, but I must leave and forget you—may heaven forbid us, Aurora”

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