Sophist

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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s