The Dessert

Upon a table made of violet glass,

Where shadow-butterflies and memories pass,

A wild-born vision starts to lightly bake:

A tart of blackberries, for dreaming's sake.

The berries are not earth, but velvet skies,

Plucked softly from the brim where midnight dies,

Infused with sunlight trapped in amber glass,

And coastal winds that whisper through the grass.

A lattice crust, spun from a comet’s thread,

Weaves golden warmth above their ruby bed.

The juices simmer, not with heat of stove,

But with the quiet pulse of an ancient grove—

Where every bubble bursts to yield a song,

Of where the broken heart may yet belong.

One silver slice upon a porcelain moon,

Consumed in cadence with a silent tune.

And as it melts upon the wandering tongue,

The heavy world is suddenly made young:

A hopeful dawn where bitter nights depart,

Baked sweet and endless in a velvet tart.