Bread

Time robs one of the berry,
The sweet red juice of the lips
The crusts upon which cast
Is stale and unbuttered.
Chewing the crumbs of minutes,
Biting great chunks out of hours,
Swallowing the day to be digested,
Processed into memory.
Some discarded,
Others consumed in the fire
Of our imagination.
Longing.
Thus we are kneaded
Into a formless lump.
Rising in the dark of morning,
Shoved into the tin crucible
Of another day.
Waiting,
For the chance to be,
The honey pastry
Served in bed
With your morning coffee.