virtuoso
11-08-2013, 04:36 PM
In the morning, you buttered my scone,
a titular kiss waxing the surface,
In the evening, you buttered my pone,
a token kiss basting the rim,
then the residual steam
rose slowly to the surface
melting the thin facade.
Under the steaming melt-off,
your sharp, serrated knife
neatly carved up each slice,
which bared your knife's teethmarks.
Between the bleached covers lay
the bread of my sustenance,
light, spindly morsels of processed
grains, pairing a spent love, you
kneaded together with a pulsing spite
to choke my smitten spirit.
You embedded a pinch of moldy yeast,
secrets held tightly within, welling
up an envy inside me that bloated
my languid soul, while the encrusted
edges, crisped with your over-heated
temper, chafed my lusty lips, and numbed
my tender taste buds. The undigested
kernels of your seething jealousy
still burn in my rendered loins.
Over time, Love's perfect mould
became a desiccate shroud.
Your steaming pone, now a
warped cone of silence; your
delicate, piping-hot scone,
a tangled web of deceit,
still, outwardly, polished
rims with their buttery cusps
lathered, but, inwardly,
crumbling trails of stale bread.
a titular kiss waxing the surface,
In the evening, you buttered my pone,
a token kiss basting the rim,
then the residual steam
rose slowly to the surface
melting the thin facade.
Under the steaming melt-off,
your sharp, serrated knife
neatly carved up each slice,
which bared your knife's teethmarks.
Between the bleached covers lay
the bread of my sustenance,
light, spindly morsels of processed
grains, pairing a spent love, you
kneaded together with a pulsing spite
to choke my smitten spirit.
You embedded a pinch of moldy yeast,
secrets held tightly within, welling
up an envy inside me that bloated
my languid soul, while the encrusted
edges, crisped with your over-heated
temper, chafed my lusty lips, and numbed
my tender taste buds. The undigested
kernels of your seething jealousy
still burn in my rendered loins.
Over time, Love's perfect mould
became a desiccate shroud.
Your steaming pone, now a
warped cone of silence; your
delicate, piping-hot scone,
a tangled web of deceit,
still, outwardly, polished
rims with their buttery cusps
lathered, but, inwardly,
crumbling trails of stale bread.