yes, that apple

by Allister Nelson

Claws on my back, fangs at my throat.

Musk mixed with cologne and the ashes

of a pricey cigar. Rumination, ruin, these

plots of fallen angels with loss in between.

In Hell, all there is to do is think, dream, and

you have been cast out of Paradise in body

only, so your mind wanders back to Eden

while you explode inside of me and drain

my blood dry, planting seeds within of

a faraway redemption, Death was the first

poet, and I shall be the last, so the Reaper

sighs into my arms, spent, helpless, and

after he falls asleep with the softest sigh,

I snap his neck, eat his brain, and harvest

his Creation.

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