The Dessert

Beneath a violet moon that wept in cream,

The kitchen drifted through a frozen dream,

Where ticking clocks had turned to molten glass,

And time was just a shadow on the grass.

Upon the table, carved of ancient bone,

A porcelain dish held worlds yet still unknown.

A crust of starlight, jagged, pale, and dry,

Enclosed the secret of the rhubarb pie.

Within, the stalks of bleeding crimson bled,

No earthy fruit, but thoughts inside the head;

A bitter memory of a spring long past,

Too sharp to hold, too violent to last.

And rising high above the scarlet core,

A surreal foam of ocean-foam and floor—

Meringue clouds twisted into silent screams,

Whipped by the ghost of unremembered dreams.

No knife could cut this paradox of sweet,

No mortal tongue was summoned here to eat.

It sat suspended, half-alive and dead,

A crown of frost upon a dying bed.

I watched it bake beneath a sunless noon,

Reflecting fragments of a shattered moon,

Until the kitchen dissolved into air,

And only sweetness lingered, waiting there.