Oranjes

"For your hand child, I'll Surrender all 

Because I surrender you'll be gone

I taste what you taste we're coming to stay

My lungs are your lungs inhale the flame"

--Palace, I Want What You Got (2014) 

Fouché, Nicolas. Portrait of a Lady as Pomona. 1700. Paris. France

Who am I without the pulp of empathy: leaking with a suckled, sweetness that trickles and warms the back of your throat? The rind has never tasted so bitter the way it did when the fruit was tattered and rotten -- nothing but the residue of hatred lingers in this fit of death. 

Individuals construct pedestals out of feeble planks for the sole goal of height but what good can it be if they're resemblant of low-hanging fruit? I'd rather breathe the airy beams of Dusk's wind, if it meant that my fate were states blossoming eternally. 

Craved, my hunger stems from the lotus-eaters that encompass the realms I tread. If mountain-tops-- in the fruition of elegance --can be traipsed, then why does the foliage bear no harvest amidst the pollinator's softness? Perhaps growth is an internal-process for Mother Nature, though, I have yet to witness a passion of virtue that is ripe and riddled with selflessness. 

This famine of decency leaves crops riddled with puny morsels of an extinct art of living; I, for one, will cater to flowering against the weeds.