It Begins Without PreludeMature

One of two ongoing poetry projects.
This one is an outpouring of my life, though not always told autobiographically.
If you want to take a look at the other, it's called "Praeca" and has a religious focus.

It Begins Without Prelude

when you sit at your normal place at our table.
You will slip a serrated blade beneath the shiny, waxy surface
of a self-proclaimed red delicious, severing the flimsy shell
from its crispy flesh. It will be like your mind, skin unwinding, almost
graceful in its descent. As you cleanly slide the blade, the red skin
will curl in on itself, like your logic, like your reason. The exoskeleton,
ever nimble, will cavort and hang from the fruit, neatly folding,
a train track of your psyche’s wreckage, tangling with eat flit,
flit, flit of the knife. The apple’s flesh flirts with the air; the inner white
turns brown, becomes tarnished, exposes itself to the air that taints it,
the same way a mind can soon begin its steady decay as time
and other chemicals bitter it. You will grasp this unraveling
skin between your fingers and pull it from the apple;
its red hue catches the sun, and dances, and causes it to glister,
a bright-white reflection of a ray. One unsteady second’s pause;
then your listless eyes might barely register the lifeless trail curling
dead and withered on the smooth varnish of the darkened hardwood floor.

The End

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