Fruit in an empty room, stationary
Wait for something, perhaps to be eaten
Stacked precariously, no gravity
A mixture of colors, sizes, and shapes
So elegantly mingled together
Like a bouquet of flowers; delicate
Are the colors; the succulent textures
A lone plum ventures away from the pile
Trying to escape, crawling away
In an exhausted try, wasted effort
It couldn’t quite get away from its fate
The inevitable end to its life
These fruit are full of scars and of bruises
As if they were horribly mistreated
Who are the owners of this produce?
This collection of sweet, ripe edibles
They must be fools to not eat them right up
To let them sit rather than take a bite
Juice sprinkling outward with the protrusion
Of the crisp, luscious protective layer
Wanting so badly to not be eaten
But rather to be put back in the wild
To fertilize the next generation
Of figs, apricots, grapes, apples peaches
Yet they remain sitting, stationary
Unable to influence their fate
And having no apparent purpose
Why then, were they stolen from their calling?
Perhaps for decoration, what a waste
How I would love to take a bite of one
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