Three
days from here
A
ghost orchard lives
A
border of wrought iron,
As
would be seen, ironically,
In
a cemetery, conceals
The
specters within,
From
the ghouls outside
Beyond
the fence
With
eternity on their side,
Time
is a non-concept, it
Just
is
Without
a purpose to pander toward,
Meandering
is the common activity
Of
an entire species unseen
Where
lifeless living does abound
The reddest of apples tend to
Surround
