Stain

He slowly presses open the heavy lids
Secreting the early day,
Bringing a stain
Into a hazy focus,
Filtering through the drenching fog,
He reaches out,
Brushes the brittle intruder
And finds it’s sharp stinking image,
The blur of its origin
Slowly pours into his memory
Calling him back,
To the sin of the apple,
The foul crimson grin
Upon his soul
Screams louder than the squawk
Of the perpetual mock,
Coming out from under the floorboards.

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