Doomed as we are to walk through the thin light
Of shrinking lost souls peopled in the black
Cloak of mourning with their eyes the glossy
Gleam of morning pastries. With tears like the
Sticky sweet frosting on the sides of a
Hot dipped Krispy Kreme. And pain like the smell
Of freshly fried dough. Their cake knows how the
Blue eyes take their exploration of death.
The wafting smell of fried dough is language
In the depth of pain. Only delicate,
Delight of guttural sounds can escape
Between the happy bouts of bites and buns.
Bring the pastries, the tea, or the coffee:
Everything human in the jellyroll and sugar of death.