Candy drops fall across the sweet navy paste of a sky. Such sight is always this even upon sleepless nights.
As the sun returns
soft yawns and stretches greet the previous nights bake that lays upon an open windowsill.
Such pastry came from the sweat of the cooks brow
and left a queen of all sweets,
but the passers that come to greet the baker smelled the pastry and run in fear.
A few smile and buy,
some inspect and throw some coins,
but most walk quickly and don’t even pass a glance.
turning their noses another way as if a parlous disease had just spoiled the air.
The cook cocks her head, sniffs the cake once again, and feels satisfied.
She doesn’t understand why they run,
why they pretend that one of her best works is such a vile creation, But they aren’t pretending.
They believe just that.
Imperfect as the cake had been
it was prepared with the purest intentions, ingredients, and heart.
Although its batter was more bitter it savored an unforgettable cream. One that little less than
ever knew of.
Left out on that windowsill the cake did not rot
the bakers heart rotted
into a lonely bowl.