Andrew David Dalby
She is the sacred fruit that connects to images of reason,
Yet she also spirals out in waves of sensual temptation;
And her pleasure -rich and ruddy- is very welcome here.
At first glance, she is an apple
But she is so much more than that.
For Lucifer spools; and with his such soft subtle thrusts,
He begs us to question: -exactly- who it is that we trust.
And as the snake slowly circles, its penetration close,
Is it really our innocence that we have lost,
Or, are we -as always- merely fools on an errand?
I take her in my hands,
I embrace her entire
For from here and from here, such life resides!
so I gnaw I chomp I break through with one scrunch
Into the firm yet fleshy fruit, that stings my senses,
and finally slakes my ardent appetite.
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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