A naked innocent, playing
in the garden — so I was,
so I was, until you whispered
of a gate. I know now
what lay beyond. Let me once more
sleep with Paradise’s peaceful
beasts, each as I named it, and forget.
Within me grows a forest; the seeds
I carried forth rooted themselves
and everywhere the fruit of knowledge
rots upon the branches. Who
can hope to pick them all? I have
eaten and spat out the taste
of memory. How else can
I live here? How else can
I die a naked innocent?
Stephen Brooke ©2015
An obscure bit of poetry that popped out, though I extremely focused on completing the novel right now. Back to work on that now.