The Dessert

Upon a plate of spun, meridian glass,

Where shadows bend and time forgets to pass,

A pastry sleeps in crusts of powdered light,

Baked from the whispers of an endless night.

Beside the edge where silver rivers flow,

The blueberries in quiet clusters glow—

Not plucked from vines of ordinary earth,

But born of comets in a sapphire birth.

Each sphere a world of ink and liquid sky,

Where constellations drift and galaxies lie.

And nestled close, the rubies of the vine:

The raspberries, where ancient sunbeams shine.

A crown of fire, a tart and velvet bead,

Awakening the soul’s forgotten seed.

They bleed a nectar bright as dawn’s first ray,

Chasing the heavy dusk of grief away.

With silver spoon, we break the crystal crust,

And watch the phantom galaxies turn to dust.

A single taste—the dark, the bright, the sweet—

And earth and heaven rise to softly meet.

In every bite, the promise is renewed:

Tomorrow waits, deliciously imbued.