Rows of many lay before.
They Hang from the tree,
yet a single golden apple
is all the eye could see.

Picked from it's slumber
In the heavens above.
It lays in the palm,
like a porcelain dove.

It stands so proud,
put for all to see.
Protected from almost harm,
Longing to be free.

This fruit not meant to last,
starts to show its age.
And when discovered it fears,
leaving center stage.

Gone to waste this golden apple,
who thought itself special.
Now a search for something new,
another fruit for the vessel.

© J.L.D