Saturday, April 25, 2015

Innocent, a poem


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.

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