Apple Schnapps

I am rotten.
An apple on the edge,
at the very top of
my oak sided barrel.

I am drunk.
With my own dark ooze.
This juicy fermentation
trickles down to those below.

I am manner.
Wasps fight for the ripe,
nibbling at my soft flesh.
Stinging the hand of god.

I am patient.
Crushed and bled dry,
pigs scoff on my core.
My essence distils slowly.

I am power.
In the voice of your youth,
renewed strength in his arm.
Fuel for your weakened mind.

I am death.
The impulse of a thousand
stabs and cuts or tightened fists.
My enemies fight on my command.

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