A Ripe Red Apple

A ripe red apple in a verdant tree
exposed itself and tempted me.
Inside out and outside in,
I saw nothing but its rosy skin.

I plucked the fruit from off the limb,
imagining sweetness and delight within,
my mouth opened; I took a bite
and tasted the worm that hid from sight.

I spat the parasite onto the ground
where it wriggled round and round.
I cast away the deceitful fruit
and crushed the worm beneath my boot.

Good or bad
all things must die.
It’s not for us
to reason why.