Isaac

Winged-steed of sapphire hue,

Etheral shimmering scales of blue.

Soaring higher, Apollo’s mount,

Tail and mane of highest thread count.

A neigh and deepest breath,

From the belly a fiery death.

The heated sky a rainbow makes,

Arching the golden chariot wakes.

Rises above the cloud of mer,

A song it sings without a word.

Notes so soft they drift away,

Giggling, they dance and play.

The end of world island tree,

Where they end their mirthful spree.

Caught in branches and turned to gold,

To pluck the apple one must be bold.

Or rest below the laden boughs,

In doldrum thought, begins to drowse.

Then suddenly a wind does stir,

Sending apple into a sudden hurl.

Upon the head of the man astute,

Gravity, all in the name of fruit.