The Dessert

The kitchen ceiling dissolves to dew,

Where grandfather clocks tick backward in blue,

And the pantry floor is a river of glass

Where copper-winged beetles and sugar-moths pass.

Upon the high shelf, where the daydreams start,

Waits the molten gold of the treacle tart.

A constellation of amber and crust,

Brought down from the stars on a levitating gust.

It pulses with warmth like a dormant sun,

Where the edges of waking and slumber run.

With every spoonful of golden gleam,

The shadows depart from the edge of the dream.

A map of tomorrow is baked in the top,

Where the worries of yesterday melt and drop.

One taste on the tongue, and the spirit will rise,

To paint a new dawn on the velvet skies.