What is it that tears at my soul?
It’s not a pebble in my shoe or a thorn that retches my guts.
Bringing bile to the back of my throat only to recede and hide in the depths of my misery;
Waiting for its chance to explode and release itself!
Let it come to my relief please.
I would not wish this on my most hated enemy;
Although right now, he is miniscule compared to this pain.
It must be poison from that enchantress’s bowl of fruit!
How clever she was to tell me not to eat those apples just yet.
She knows what my favorite fruit is!
Of course she placed poison in those little green apples.
I will have her burned at the stake this witch;
But first hurl the apples at her; oh the pain.
© 2011 Michael Yost