is a melody,
but rhythm's
more the gist of it:
we sweeten in time
with the rate of years' increasing;
we soften
and fill out,
while dying
every minute.
In pursuit of our truth, we lose
touch with where we come from.
In pursuit of our freedom,
we are innocent as apples
destined to fall
from their tree in autumn;
blushing
as they ripen
to their own
destruction.
