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.

 

A weight only as strong as the wind it fights with.

Yet, every sweet speck of its texture has a purpose.

What it takes to ripen under a burning sun is control.

What stem bends and doesn't break is strength.

And what seed would know the hope of day

without surviving the cold night.

 

It's the passion of a inner smile

And it's a fruitful mass of a 

 silent cadence.