Beneath Love's Shining Veil

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.