Crimson Apples

A bite
then innocence forgotten.
Childhood flows like a stream
back to the ocean.

Nature
is probably just a piece,
or perhaps a portrait
of the world.

A cycle
never learns to cease like the spiral,
or seems to pause for just a second
to reverse its own stroll.

A start
is only the beginning of another beginning,
or perhaps somewhere in the middle
of the end of the end.

We might as well start handing out crimson apples,
because in the end, we've learnt nothing yet again.

All it takes
is just one bite.