It sits still on the window sill,
Shiny red skin glowing in the glory of surviving another day,
It watches the trees rustle in the wind,
Maybe tomorrow it will get to see their leaves shimmering in the sun.

It's so far from home it doesn't know how to get back,
Home is now just a distant memory of a warm orchard filled with friends,
If it's center wasn't filled with sweet, juicy fruit,
Hollow might be a good way to describe this life.

There is movement, the sleek covering is pressed against a mouth and crunched,
There is a giant, white gap now right down to the children,
Around the hole there is a gleaming, wet circle,
Looking like lips that have just been kissed,
And it happens again, and again, and again,
Until there is no red left except at its tipity top or its bloody bottom,
Now it is not hollow, nor is it full,
Just a thin shell of what used to be surrounded by black plastic.

Originally written: December of 2007. I miss Creative Writing. I don't think it was as good as my friend's DANCE DANCE DANCE poem though, but my teacher didn't think I could write a poem about an apple. Mmm...right.