Pure, untouched, ripe fruit, fresh on the tree -
such a sad and lonely thing to be.
Unwanted for you are insular.
Misinterpreted as insecure.
Gone is the want to commit and choose.
People want convenience, fast and loose.
So they seek fruit contaminated -
broken-down and dilapidated.
Touched and handed down from man to man -
roughed and tumbled by vain soiled hands.
Made unclean by tarnished filthy skin -
destroying the goodness once within.
No amount of cleansing can restore,
the vibrancy that the fruit once bore.
Left hanging until you fall and rot,
fully determined, they loved you not.
They know not the meaning of the word -
those selfish vagabond pecking birds.
Flight of fancy turned to frustration.
Season of death, brought a cessation,
to the season of life, when love grew -
fresh like the fruit, pure, ripe, warm and new.
Though, you rotted, the seeds stayed behind,
leading you to resurrect refined.
You hang and wait on a stronger branch,
knowing how to lure loves blessed hands.
