Perfect Forbidden

not this one where apples are born with
bite marks on their fractured skin,
where the earth spits venom in the eye
of the unsuspecting hoe,
what have you done to my other world,
isn’t it the nature of all force
to find a new path when hope lies shattered
like broken mirrors on the ground,

unless of course someone is winning this distortion,
unless you are winning,
unless the game has changed;
what do I know,
there again the brusque palm of song
slaps my hand away
as it reaches for half eaten fruit;
what do I know,
competing with homeless dreams for
a lick of sugary emptiness;

give me back that other world,
the one in which angry roses do not play
roulette with the shackled wind,
the one in which the forbidden was
still perfect, sitting high on a tree,
it’s honeyed ears
listening to my poems.

The apple inspiration came from here.