fresh pulled apple

Ideas stolen from a muse. Her reality in the imagination of someone's escape.
The heat of the noon sun, the toilet that needs flushing. Transported, transposed, taken away, packaged, priced. Left to die without a headstone, or a memory. Just your words, your name, your accomplishment to reach out and touch a world, like a tablecloth pulled leaving the place settings ready for a feast. Stories untold for fear of losing your place at the table. Under the table surviving on crumbs, you act as if you were. Some prefer to eat with their hands, you can't do both, it isn't fair.
If I were you I wouldn't pity the mice that can run and hide. You would because you don't know better.


It's not what you think it's what you believe.  Patricia '96