A pale sun kneads the morning sky,
Where floating clouds of custard drift on high.
A porcelain cup of dreaming blue
Awakens skies of apricot and dew.
Upon a silver tray of wind and tide,
The golden pastries float and softly glide.
Each fluted cup—a chalice spun of light,
Bears toasted secrets born of sweet delight.
A dusting snow of cinnamon and grace
Descends in whispers on the waking place.
The blisters dark on buttered crusts of old
Are little moons of caramelized gold.
One fragile bite, and gravity takes flight:
The morning blooms in warm, surrealist light.
A hopeful pulse within the golden shell,
Where time stands still, and all is rising well.
About the Creator
Forest Green
Hi. I am a writer with some years of experiences, although I am still working out the progress in my work. I make different types of stories that I hope many will enjoy.
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