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.
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