At the beginning there was darkness: harsh, cold, and resolute.
But even in the blackest of blacks can be found things once absolute.
From the abysses beyond the deepest dark, there planted was a seed.
Though small and fractured, gnarled and raptured, from inside its core life did bleed.
A bright pulse of color, blended with wonder, their veins began to outrun.
The enveloping darkness and night’s bitter starkness, as the bleak was becoming undone.
A sound so sweet followed, disbanding the hallowed silence, as it began to take shape.
A mythical fruit, once told to permute, existence and yielding escape.
Though to be only enjoyed by beings enlightened.
The effects of the ichor, expanded and heightened.
The way they were seeing, the way they were feeling.
Mere mortals deserved too this unthinkable healing.
And so they decreed that society be freed, from shackles of determined states.
The hammer was downed, as all now were gowned, in an amalgam of predestined fates.
No longer was there to be any silence, the end was now nigh for the dark.
For all that it was, was all that it were, when a dream became more than a spark.
Now once a year, as time does finally draw near for the mythos to unroot.
The masses rejoice in a unified voice--elating, celebrating Wonderfruit.