Apple on a table one day old.
Round and firm.
Light glinting off tight skin.
Rosy red cheeks.
Crisp, supple juice
locked away behind her scarlet garment.
Apple on a table three days old.
Round and tender.
Oily sheen like a film on her brow.
Her sweet perfurme
that ends in a spike of acidity
as her robe becomes looser around her pliable form.
Apple on a table just a week old.
Deformed and defamed.
Dust and decay her discolored jewerly.
Her cheeks but hollowed out skull bones
sucking inward to spit out seeds
with her last breath.
Scarlet turned to blood.
Blood to rust.
Rust to dirt.