I like to bake crumpets
on sunlit avenues
of sleeping cities

Whose bustling is an uproar
of white noise
in the collective mind

Lulling them
to
perpetual sleep,

like the drolling of a fan
in the dark nights
of their electric grid of thoughts

It’s nice to make something sweet
out of the heat
that radiates from the surface
of a broken paveway

Cracked, though it may be
It gives me hope
that I can sustain myself
in this faced paced world
of nonsense

And yet the world is always
a blur around me
As I stuff myself
with metaphors
sugar coated
and left to rot in my stomach

I could never hope
to match their speed,

I’m too caught up in the weeds
overgrown in my head

Sure, it’s cutting,
fast in the haste of being slow

Taking a machete
to clear out some space
Leave me feeling empty

The wind never stops blowing
in my inner world
It sure shuts them up