Spoiled Apple

A Poem

Photo by Maria Teneva on Unsplash

The humiliation of the lonely
Exists in spite of inclination,
Of preference, or contentment.
It exists in the failure to be —
Free, unbound, unshackled —
In being tethered, chafed,
Rubbed raw — by the most
Relentless of jailors — the most
Vicious of torturers — who digs
Finger and nail into tender flesh —
And pulls. And so the sting
Carries through — like a spoiled apple —
Pleasure in world and health and self,
Delight in delights taken,
And moments stolen and hoarded —
Only easing in the shade of greater
Pain, pitched darker, drawn tighter.
Then — only then — is freedom gained.