Poem: Apple Cart

I am not the master of my space.

I do not want to deal with this place.

I have upset the apple cart many times.

I hate the imperfect limes.

I fall onto my knees.

I brush away ugly fleas.

I know the sound of rolling apples.

I am awake to the ringing of bells in the chapels.

I am dead to one voice.

I hear only one choice.

I am not the master in this place.

I do not want to deal with this disgrace.