The fruit of my words

 My poetry doesn't move you enough.
I wish it was me that was missing something here.
But it was you...
I took my words and formed a garden path for you to follow.

Down down where all seasons converge, all weather, all twilight.
There I have grown a fruit tree with the most delicious fruit you've ever tasted.
But you don't bite in...
Instead you pretend you know the flavor.

Your imagination doesn't turn.
My words just fall flat like autumn leaves under that same tree!
Or worse the uneaten fruit that spent a month on the tree.
Developing through those sunfilled days, sits rotting.

It doesn't move you.
The metaphor was built like a house whose curvature,
surrounded the eternal fruit tree of my verse.
You grin and say- They're just words!

Just imagine if you could see and taste the fruit.
A pomegranate persimmon looking fruit.
whose perfect sourness livened your senses.
That exposed flavors you never knew existed.

That exposed illusions in your waking life,
that leave you unsustained.