abstract life

Has the apple fallen?

As the days grow cold and nights become longer I feel the task at hand has subsequently become the focus of the fall. Ponder as such that many days have come and gone with yet no full structure unbecoming controlled in the bison I once so clearly saw. I have no fear of the next; resentment in the path of the unjust is the appetizer for the affair. The at times so clear ensemble place aside the pewter has evolved into disarray, increased attire not fit for the day. Having no ability to displace the feelings of revolt, much is needed in change and the clock, pure mocking with a ticking smile. The name is dissolving as so much in which it has engulfed, only the smile has had the eye to keep track, only the flakes of skin protrude to the attest of numerical history making. What has become of this, where have their roots taken plantation? The burning desire, the solitaries, was it farmed, or was the seed to chance? I cannot solidify water downed proclamations, nor was I granted the option, yet still I push on. Blackened have been the paths to our self-righteous upheavals, still downhill we tread. Finding me has yet to become something of truth. Keeping tribunals at bay, has production of the endearment surroundings congested the lane to recall? The apple has been so neglected by the tick that saving face is of no matter. Times of reminisce have never been. This tree grew in the harsh winter, in cold blasting and ice filled summers. No matter the turn of the unforgiving tick's it grew bigger, stronger, faster and yet more alone. Aware of nothing unbalanced nothing condemning, no wrong to see. The mangled top branches, a touch of beauty foundation lost in translation, leaving pure luck to growth, finding small winds over bearing.