Poem 2/6

 

Uncle Tom

Cut cookies leap off of the pan,
Elated by their uniqueness.

White and pink frosting plastered on their smooth surfaces
Like a bursted bubble over lips.

Blue lights stripped their decorations.

Tradition.

The crumbling cookies inject themselves with
Serum of sameness – In a feeble attempt
To preserve their parts like cadavers in formaldehyde.

Bland. Tasteless.
But safe…

Forbid we insult taste buds with a flavor too sweet.

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