The Fruit that Falls

slouching utopias scour our grief.
for the tenuous poisons that 
that once made us whole.

we balk at the simple mechanisms
that grunt out our lives.
while crippled time machines throb in our throats.

stubborn actors in masks we can't remove.
no more subtle grins to pretend we can be saved.

missing words fret their price.
as we auction off the remains of our skin.
every touch more fragile than the last.

hollow stages quiver beneath
the weight of our discontent.

bitten apples turn sour
waiting for us to taste
how sweet they once were.