Food of my love a desire to bite flesh of an apple imprinted with teeth each petal from a bulb that gave

it birth yet it is not a flower, its a fruit and to what else does it or not compare to a lullaby, a bed sheet, a soul an element of the sweltering hole bread for a day but nothing more is there or to the moon when half-possessed by doom streaked with shadows and its time to wither when it lost it all it was visible denuded, skywardly still it will roam or let it stand as such a nourishment that for mercy was too kind to endure