Prevaricating bushes lie low,
singeing an edge round his soul.
Apples hold secrets like forests hold trees
deep in the husk of their seeds.
Tracks in the cracks
of his memory’s files—
a mess too complex
Serpents still tempt him
and steal his intention,
splitting his answers
down forks in his tongue.
They snake through branches in bushes
as he douses the branches in gas.
He thinks about playing with matches
and laughs, losing his pale to the glow—
to the flickering trail of lies that writhes
at the edge of his deep apple soul.
Damming its freedom to flow,
he damns its freedom to flow.
Brenda Warren 2013
Note: The word “class” from the wordle, did not make an appearance in my piece this week.