This is the fruit of immortality.

At some times, there are lucky fools it kills:

It leaves them gently smiling on the ground,

An apple fallen from their outstretched hands.

But cursed are those who find the lonely garden,

And, craving darkness, see the golden tree.

Bright teeth break through the metal-seeming skin

To taste the crisp, white, sweetness of the flesh.

They breathe the gift. But when the flavor fades,

Unchanged, they stride across the broken stones

Go past the wall and tramp across the world.

Years pass before they learn the caustic truth.

All friends and kind begin to pass away.

Bones sleep in graves, just withered skeletons

That once they knew as men. All cities fall,

The dust and kudzu swallowing the stones.

New flames burn up, consuming their own souls,

And shiver down to ashes, leaving naught

But coals and chalky cinders on the tongue.

But those who ate the fruit and cast it off

Stay locked in place while all the world revolves

Around them. Fire consumes and dies again

But leaves the damned once-mortals without scars

Across their bodies, rather in their souls.

These ghosts traverse each bent and broken path

That crosses over fair and mortal earth.

Each searching, grasping, hollow, crawling dawn

Observes them rooting for the garden where

They found the deadly tree with golden apples.

Undying ones might cry their bitter tears,

But ‘til the maker comes again in glory

The garden stays concealed from those who’ve been.

This is the fruit of immortality,

And some times, there are blessed fools it kills,

But most it leaves alive.