Next poem in the Pinocchio series.
I leave of my own volition:
Upon the Tree the orbs hung,
distant planets to eyes denied
access; highlighted by the serpent
forever damned to slither into stories
as demon, black hearted, forked tongue.
Yet the hand that plucked the fruit
could just as easily have sought
truth, might not have been so childish
nor disobedient (punished with death
for both and scorn for the female).
She may have been on the search
for answers that abound in every mind. -
Who am I in this deep blanket where stars
whisper answers ears cannot decipher?
The apples may have seemed appropriate.
Centuries later, with gargantuan bones
excavated, and laws of evolution scattered
by the denizens of devout truth,
perhaps a new apple tree needs to be
planted - this time the fruit picked
with deliberate understanding.
Destiny in human hands
not some code of laws
only the collared lawmakers
seem fortunate enough to understand.