In a willow tree,
branches dripping,
naked before spring –
a flimsily wrapped sophist pondered,
stared down at his collection of
cricket disciples,
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.


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