The Dessert

A golden noon begins to melt and spill,

Across a floating archipelago of white.

The sugar-sculpted clouds stand strangely still,

Drenched in the warmth of butter-scotch and light.

An amber tide creeps up the porcelain shore,

Where silver spoons become both helm and sail.

The kitchen walls dissolve, they are no more—

We drift inside a sweet, surrealist tale.

Upon the plate, a continent of crust

Holds oceans made of glossy, rich desires.

We sprinkle stars of caramelized dust

To feed the quiet hope that never tires.

With every bite, the gravity lets go;

The heavy heart floats upward to the skies.

Through skies of spun-gold syrup, soft and slow,

A brighter, warmer morning starts to rise.