Crème brûlée self

They sit on apple-ruby seats, special emblems on chests
Dessert is served! Molten towers of pale sunshine, glazed with deep caramel
are brought up, set meticulously, with simpering looks
They nod, aloof, then raise silver spoons -- 
violently, the instruments dash past,
blow past carefully warmed sugar, torched delicately to crispness
and sink down, down, down
into the heavy acceptance waiting below, 
ladled cream sliding mournfully past unflinching white walls
 

The Lone Cat

MA

16 years old

More by The Lone Cat

  • exoticism

    grey eyes
    stare, openly
    at the flesh of elephant plums
    raw and hanging, dripping with a sour earthiness
    open your fists, green guava
    soon dropped upon the shore
    of a tall-tiered world, singing of poverty and praises