In a willow tree,
naked before spring –
a flimsily wrapped sophist pondered,
stared down at his collection of
shivering in the morning dew.
“How like an apple,” he began
condescending to reveal some cognition
a platitude to drain the day.
“Or a prune, wrinkled in the sun,”
he tried to continue,
losing his aphoristic hue,
the spectrum of his thought splattering
like the crimson stain of a head
shorn from a traitor’s neck.
“I cannot continue,” he accused.
“There are disbelievers present,”
he explained and promptly fell
from his pulpit branch
and cracked his skull.