Baby Apples

It was a routine to have that same dream. Some Bob Dylan man acting obscene He's got a wire in his hand and he's hooking the leaves from the tree. Say's he's looking for some baby apples and maybe a drink from the breezy rain droplets. Beneath the pale moonlight's hazy glare, I stood in a world of poverty and despair, And watched as a girl named Apples drowned, Her voice silenced, her body lifeless and a trail of salt. Her parent's wept and wailed, their tears falling like some rain battling the hail. But I stood there motionlesss, a little strange boy caught up in pain, of a life where poverty was the norm, a little autistic and a little fleeting scream. As the years went by, I played my guitar for the societies on the moon. Writing songs of love and pain, near and far, and…