This is an allegorical poem I wrote about attempted and failed suicide.
As you dream, you see a small, bright
crimson sphere against a white background
of dull, pale pallor.
It is an apple,
and you see it become more fine and pronounced
around the edges.
A trembling but graceful hand
holds the strange vermilion apple. It is grasped in a way
that one might clutch the fate
of their world tightly in their arms,
deciding what they will do next.
The nervous hand on that long, slender arm
connected to the crying and convulsing
woman makes up its mind,
on impulse.
The insignificant apple becomes much more
potent with its willfully tempting ways.
It begins to bleed from within,
poisoning itself with smoky black tendrils
of deep stained pain.
The woman weeps her failure,
and drops the once beautiful apple.
It disappears, along with her dreams,
down into the blank white atmospheric background,
never to be seen again.
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I edited, shortened some sentences and broke up the lines.
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