Acme

The apex of an orange is the same, a philosopher's allegory for humans. In a world of metered verse and rhyme, orange is an unlit shadow-show on Plato's cave— pock-marked, blind, drying rind, lying in wait to find its rhythm, sway its way into acceptance. Slow dance on the walls of interrupted light, hiding what's outside—inside itself a growing need to see where sunlight is born, know itself in reflection and know the name of a new day is Dawn. No matter how perfect a form in the dark, there's no substitute for a citrus kiss of vitamins when the stone rolls away from an opening to reveal the orange sun rise.