They were supposed
to marry
touch apples
in an orchard together
look out
upon
a North Eastern sea
the one
that brought so many
power-hungry heathens
to
this land
We were
supposed
to marry
touch apples
in the Fall together
something
hiding
in our hearts
where
we lived in different
parts
of the crusty Empire City
at contrasting and
overlapping points
in the future
We were supposed to
eat
chips and salsa together
laugh at
small things
look out
on
green pastures
and blue skies
torn apart
by
the fingers of oak trees
and yea
fall down from
our egos
like the old ploughworker’s
handiwork in the field
to
feed
the souls and
the soul-filled life
we abandoned