The Dessert

Beneath a clock with melting hands,

Where purple shadows graze the dunes,

A kitchen floats in violet lands,

Suspended under three pale moons.

The floorboards hum a low refrain,

While porcelain cups begin to sigh,

And pressed against the astral pane

Resides the bumbleberry pie.

A patchwork quilt of midnight blue,

With woven seams of thorns and dew,

It holds the ghosts of summer skies

Beneath a crust of crystallized

And ancient stars. A single slice

Reveals the velvet, syrup tide,

Where memories drift on blocks of ice

And hidden constellations hide.

The oven breathes a heavy ghost

Of cinnamon and bruised blackberry,

A phantom heat that warms the most

Forgotten corners of the airy

And weightless room. I reach my hand

To touch the pastry’s silver crown,

And tumble through the shifting sand

As gravity begins to drown.

We are but crumbs upon the spoon,

Baked deep within the cosmic shell,

Drifting toward a fading moon

Where sweet and bitter secrets dwell.