... and we tried to save ourselves. "How"
was not the question- but "if".
The old man guarding the apple orchard
knew better- "when".
Blood in the cloth, the stain
of berries absorbed into skin,
even earth in small smudges
were impossible to remove.
So we live in the garden. Collecting
tools of destruction. Wearing
disguises. Death's severed hand
in our pockets warn us
of the insufferable
existence of struggle.
Our fate has a name. No one
has transcribed it. Yet,
we continue to speak
of returning. Revival. As if
we never lived. (Our footprints
alive in the ground)
We aren't coming back. The old man
has decided. His fruit chained
to the trees. Poisonous snakes
in the hair of our children. Winter
created on our final day. A reminder.