The Apple

For my stumbling child who    
now stacks cracked bricks of grief    
till his weathered eyes can not be seen  
by winds of warm relief    
or sprouting seeds, I grieve  
   
I grieve for tattered skin  
and flinch at that scattered manner in which he breathes  
   
I grieve  
for battered dreams    
buried before the lanterns    
left to hang by me    
neath natures leaves, meant to light the way  
to fortune more decadent than 
I was meant to ever see  
   
I grieve  
   
For love deceased    
and hope  
he remembers home