Sin


I sit beneath an old oak tree
wondering why I do so.
Its branches are sickly, its roots are snakes,
its leaves are brown and crumbling
like powdery snow falling from a dark sky.
Its trunk looks poisoned, far past its best years.

Hanging from its branches are glistening fruit,
tantalizingly ripe, succulent pods of moisture
sure to fill your mouth with flavors
beyond comprehension,
sure to fill your brain with appreciation
but it is but a fleeting expression of pleasure.

I pick one fruit, its aroma filling my nostrils,
infiltrating my brain and I take a bite.
Juices flood my mouth
but are quickly overtaken by bitterness.
Dread fills my brain, foul tastes fill my mouth,
quaking shakes my bones and I spit it out,
disgusted.

A few days later and I find myself
under the tree.
I reach up and pluck a fruit.

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