Only small ones were left.
Barely apples, wearing coats of
soft spots.
The secret is in the little
ones well matched with children.
That way /
more individuals fit in the
same tattered box.

They are easier to share
each their own.

Big ones are always picked
over first / but they are a challenge.
One taste makes it nearly
impossible to stop
the lust that prevents equality.
They take more and more.

Guards always frown at her,
with her withering harvest.
Then they weigh the apples.
Take two out.
And punch her rations card.

© SF Jones, 2014

Dystopia is a poetic worldbuilding project. Each day for the next week, I will post a poem that exposes the characteristics of a fictional setting. The pieces will showcase the physical conditions and/or the emotions and interactions of the people who live there. Let your imagination run wild; I will do the same.

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