Rotten Apple

In the orchard of my soul, a fruit decays,

A rotten apple, in a somber haze.

Within its core, a darkness slowly creeps,

A silent sorrow that never sleeps.

Each day it lingers, unseen, untold,

A hidden anguish, taking hold.

Its flesh, once full of life, now corrupt,

A reflection of my own disrupted trust.

The sweetness was gone, replaced by bitter taste,

As time erodes with relentless haste.

Yet still it clings, this rotting core,

A metaphor for what I can’t ignore.

I feel it too, within my very being,

A gnawing pain that’s so deceiving.

A heaviness pulls me low,

Like poisoning spreading, a silent blow.

But even in this state of deep decay,

There’s beauty in the disarray.

For from the ruins, new strengths may rise,

A chance to mend and realize.

So let the rotten apple be,

A symbol of what I can’t yet see.

For deep within, though shadows loom,

There’s still a chance for me to bloom.