Genesis

The apple sits on an old examination bed in the world's foyer. The stony silence of the men staring hard crosses the line of sanity. Why do I think of this, drowning in the depth of lost time? Maybe nothing came from anything, a long drawn-out yawn from nowhere. Maybe my mother's soul set the apple free, making it roll down the road. And I look for the same sense of stillness, hoping it will heal me. The myth has its head stuck in the fork of a tree. And the spirits of knowledge won't let it pass.