The patchouli damsel wore a wreath of daisies and roses, with her scent of cucumber mint. Her dress ruffled with privilege and gold as she glanced at me while in blooming sage of contemplation. "Take this green apple, and feast upon it for your years shall age not in numbers but in wisdom," she uttered as her lavender eyes batted with indiscretion.
"Who are you?" I asked, expecting friendship as I was in sorrows of the previous past.
"You will see, and feast on it. Hurry," she urged.
I took the apple, yet waited on the feast as I worked on the blossoming sage, planting cedars, and love. In a few, a cupped hand drowned me and no more stars above or melodies of hymn. The pervasive woman shoved the green apple into in mouth with the hands of malice concomitant of evil by her side. The wrought of pain was normalized by her comparison of my sorrows.
Awakened, I shed blood proved of no mercy from the deviants. The green apple vomited out of my mouth as I treaded down a path unfamiliar to the journey expected. I understood myself, but gained no wisdom as the green apple promised.
The damsel distressed in her own mind practiced her soliloquies and verses, but her gross words were the venster of hell. Upon a journey, however, my joy came up and piqued my thoughts, words, and action proving of strength I never knew I had.
The green apple and its damsel became a folktale, upon the fields of life, where jealousies became the vice.
Just write.