Apples turn sour.
Skies go dark.
Beautiful things that were once unmarked.
A touch of a finger
can spread a rot that will linger.
Beautiful things become harbringers.

It’s a figure of eight
the way fate seems to create
new opportunities for me to decimate.
Because with a touch of my finger,
no matter the intentions or actions,
beautiful things are torn apart.

Maybe I caused the apples to die.
Maybe I set the clouds in the sky.
Because with just the touch of my finger
beautiful things can be torn apart.

© Robert Taylor