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La pomme, pondérée

What an apple tells.

An apple is a form, a potential, a miracle,

Green or golden, sweet or tart,

plump in the palm or tiny as toes,

Give me an apple for my day to start.


I've been pondering pommes,

looking at them under a new light.

Thinking how they're like our brains,

But also how that's not quite right.


See, apples come in different sizes,

but have nothing but goodness inside.

We humans all have brains

seemingly very much the same.

Same-sized, hidden in our heads,

enfolding the unfathomable.


A worm may nibble inside an apple,

leaving it less appealing yet intact.

No such worm dares delve into

the depths of our human despair.

Far more insidious, invisible, immaterial,

even invincible,

is the parasite that penetrates the mind.


Its victim does not appear to rot,

and may even lead an entire lot.

Against such a parasite, there is no

medical cure, no surgical salvation,

For the parasite itself parades as a savior.


From that grey matter in the mind

may grow glorious visions,

may flow sweet and juicy goodness,

but may also putrify hate and horror.

beyond what any worm could assess.


The parasite decides but in disguise.

It says you're a harbinger of heaven,

when it's all hell you've hailed.


Reaping such perpetual havoc in human affairs,

should not such a parasite be our enemy number one?

Tricky, because it's the very trigger of that enzyme we call

the enemy,

catalyzed by rhetorical logic and categories of thought.


Let's call an apple by its name, and a worm the same.

Both are good, whole, without deceit.

The parasite of our minds, in perpetual mutation,

hides from its name by naming others,

but I've caught onto its game, called BELIEFS.


Feel your beating heart, and take my blood into your veins.

I want to know: who are you, pure, stripped of your beliefs?

An apple in a bushel, a human joined to humanity. Shadow and light.

Fermenting mush for the distillation of cosmic delight.





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