Who are we to talk?
We are the fruits of a guilty conscience.
Well, the Apple doesn’t fall from the tree.
But not the tree, nor the apple are at fault.
It’s the man that planted them.
The man that nurtured these prolific orchards,
extending his reach through their fingers.
Dropping apple after apple,
leaving trails of fruit,
the common denominator isn’t hard to find.
You don’t even have to look.
Just follow along the path of bad seeds and you’ll find it.
A tree of his own, nursing the rest.
The rest of us.
And we’ll all fall.
We’ll be left at the foot of this tree,
hands too frail to pick us up.
Left to live and grow,
and drop apples of our own.