Atop the tree are the few perfect fruit,
They are shiny, red and untouched,
Somewhere up there is the perfect suit,
Longing for their man so much.
Upon the ground lie the fallen many,
The shine worn from other use,
Rotten with bites a plenty,
Barely containing any juice.
You stand below, hunger so great,
Contemplating your two choices,
Climb and risk falling to your fate?
Or calming your inner cowardly voices?
So you reach down like most would do,
Leaving the tree top alone and blue.
Michael Scourey
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