The Dessert

The morning sky is spun from melted glass,

Where amethyst and ruby clouds condense.

We watch the velvet hours slowly pass,

Suspended deep within a breathless sense.

Upon a windowsill of ancient stone,

Where floating planets graze the kitchen sill,

A pastry blooms—a world entirely known,

Bred from a wild and astronomical thrill.

The crust is woven from the rings of Mars,

Flaking like stardust in the amber heat,

And brimming with a galaxy of stars—

Tart crimson spheres where sweet and bitter meet.

A single slice cuts through the heavy gloom,

Releasing light that paints the ceiling blue.

It smells of gardens where the comets bloom,

And promises that all our dreams are true.

We taste the sunrise in the velvet jam,

A remedy for every shadowed ache;

The universe is sweet just as I am,

And folded gently in a pie to bake.