This Fruitful Mass of Cadence

You have mistaken the sweetness of fruit. You have mistaken its identity with the taste of its wet skin dripping into a cluster of sugary silk. Its presents; heavy as a whisper fallen on a wind. Yet, every sweet speck texture has a purpose. What it takes to ripen under a burning sun is control. What it takes to bend without breaking is strength. And what seed would know the smell of morning without surviving the cold night. It's the passion of a inner smile And it's a fruitful mass of a silent cadence.