The smell of rotten apples
09/27 2020
The smell of rotten apples
In the last rays of an escaping sun
Reflect in the blond curls of women
That compare themselves to historical Madonnas
In groups of five on each saddle on different horses
That everyone wanted once upon a time in a much different place
Of simple love and simple woes
In the reflection of the waves, whipped up to an opaque foam
That almost reaches the edge of the concrete quay
Porcelain in her tears
For there is no redemption in regretful screams
The wave always returns to shore, anyhow
Some speak of a highway, some speak of a boat
Some fondly tell stories of heroes with pointed swords
But what they really want to find is that everlasting home
Where fears are accepted, wishes non-existent
The Madonna & Elvis curl up together
One bright, warm, Friday afternoon
What they reward you for believing
Is that there is always someone waiting
To reciprocate those nervous twitches
That occur where fairy tales intertwine
With the reality that somehow quickly comes around
Who could ever be such a freak?