Beginning of the very end,
Left too long; causing decay.
Apples of autumn on the ground,
Caged, abandoned and betrayed;
Killed by the knives of kin.
What are we but graves?
In us we dutifully carry
Dying spark of life. And
Over our blood soaked bed
We often caress ourselves with a knife.
~10/10/24 EH ©
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Word count - 53
Lines - 5
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