It starts from a growl, sound of a red apple, somewhere with distance
And the growl, his eyes turn red also, twirling to find the dance
For in the middle ground of the ball
The light above shone hence nothing was heard but haul
The ripped fruit, glowing, shimmering in their eyes
They dance and dance, jump and twirl
To make it fall on their hands
Shout, the chandelier above, told them it's harmful to have
But then the music got louder, the growl tougher
His skin turn to long massive coated fur, eyes became a cycling ground
And he heard nothing but his desire peeking in
the red apple resting
Small tumblings, tricks, salivary glands ticks
And on the forbidden tree, his eyes were stick
He didn't wipe the grin forming on his lips
Sway his hands, his head, his lips
Some are a watcher, wanting to dance with him
Some are a monstrous pact gathered also to run in
To feed their hunger, crying from their stomach
Wait... Is it really their stomach?
Sometimes, they glance at the apple whenever their heart ache
Sometimes, they glance the apple, whenever a rock hit their bottom
Their eyes automatically search for the apple, when their gnarl needs to be humble
The chandelier above, shook its head
From a wise smug on its light, it whispered a sound of grace
Because down, they have reached the apple, poison of a wrong turn of passion
And yet we're wrong, those were not animals, but people with ballistic intuition
YOU ARE READING
One Hundred Fifty
RandomFifty, Fifty, Fifty A writing challenge for myself is to create fifty poems, fifty essays, and fifty one-shot stories, every single prekeng day to make it a hundred and fifty days of honing my skills and giving sparks to my interest. Here's the deal...
