I Am A Ripened Fruit

By
I am a ripened fruit.
I roll in concentric circles, not a blemish to disrupt my path.
Look at me and see my bright red skin, looking just as it should.
I assume that I am full of juice
Which surrounds my pit,
But if it has not been tasted, if my depths have not been plumbed,
how am I to know?
Am I not in fact ripe?
Or am I?
Or, most importantly—
Am I on the brink of spoil?





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