Apples That Float Away

To breathe in woe and then bemoan the thunderclouds
Can bring no kind of sympathy or peaceful rest.
The storms that we amass we then must blow away
And tie our hearts upon the setting sun out west.

Are apples truly rotten on this gnarly tree -
Can birds not perch upon the branches just as well?
Is all this ugliness, in fact, just ripe in me
And have I cursed this life with my own wretched spell?

The perfect home is something that I always knew
But greener grass is all I ever really craved;
A lesson, then, before I finally undo
The ropes that tie my fragile raft and float away.

--

*Please do not nominate this poem. Thank you.

Ben Pickard 2016