Golden Tomatoes

Poem on tomatoes. Not a nursery rhyme lol.

Sour Ladies pluck the blood fruits in their farms,

The gleaming tomatoes automatically transform

To rotten pink balls in the market

But one stands out as Pharaoh’s pride

Trapped in the wooden stalls of the marketplace.

It longs to be free.

Movement constricted by the creator.

Not the farmer but the creator himself.

Stony limitations.

“How I Wish” It says.

“A millimeter of motion is so much worth to me”