If secrets were sealed in apple-flesh,
I wouldn’t need a serpent to encourage me.
A gnashing on red skin originating sin,
Opening an invitation to the celestial court,
Arcane juices bleeding under my tongue,
Chewing well-marbled cerebral freedom.
As it stands, knowledge doesn’t grow on trees.
Self-discovery doesn’t taste so sweet.
That bitterness turns anxious minds to ancient gardens.
It exaggerates the sweetness of catechismal couplets.
Far simpler to stay put and shun treetop wisdom,
With nightmares kept out by a cherub’s flaming sword.
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