Stream of thoughts flowing in blank space

The apple fallen from the tree

I am an apple fallen far from my tree. Crumbling down the earthy hills, my red skin is bruising. It is bruising cause I am alone, having no one to clear the rusty path where I roll. You pass me, but don't pick me up. No one wants a bruised apple on their table.

But once upon a time, my skin was glorious and shiny. The healthy red was glowing majestically from my cheeks. Like a jewel hanging tall on the crown of her majesty, I used to reach the heights called heavenly. I was waving gently to the clouds, whispering my sweetness to them. I used to be showered by the clearest drops of rain. And lulled to sleep by the vocal stream whose music was like a soft murmur to us.

I was raised with my brothers and sisters. Like a necklace we were worn by the proud Morning who was showing off how capable Nature was when it came to creating magnificent things. But we were just kids laughing at the Wind, trying to stretch out as much as we can to peep down at the unknown.

However, some games end tragically and are never meant to be played in the first place. The mighty old Wind struck with its dagger, and rudely cut me off from my mother's crown. And what was once a peaceful unity, now was turned into disharmony.

My lone and solitary destiny began. I saw many beasts crawling down the road. And none of them carried songs like the nightingale in summer. It is ugly down here, I wanted to tell my brothers. Once I was bathed in the clearest rainwater, now I was trapped and sinking in filthy mud. I am red no more.

Mother, will you recognize the heart of your own child? If you had cut me in half yesterday, you would've found the sweetest honeydew juice. If you cut my bruised body now, you would find swelling lumps spitting bitter yellow bile. You would find blackening flesh. You would find worms. You would find grudge.