There once was a woman
-- a baker, a chef -- claimed by many
to be.. a liv-ing god-dess, but she.. was jus-s-s-st ..an-artist;
however, far---- ...beyond, the rest. Each one of her morsels...
individual masterpieces... with individual, homemade-auras.
Her pastries, her candies, her honey
-- oh-so sweet -- her cake, with her frosting...
She once-produced.. such irresistible treats.
Those sugar-dusted desserts ...enriched with her cream:
this woman created that which most only dream..
Although, as people do, she started to cry.
Into her mixing-bowl -- falling ...from her eyes --
..tears did travel. ‘Tis said even deeper...
-- outside of the brim of the bowl --
..tis said they dripped downwards, dampened her soul -
that they tenaciously trickled, rusting her forge..
Not-yet fully bitter, yet still bittering-sweet...
Regardless, results, showed that there was nothing honeyed ...left..
baked, or drizzled passionately to a T..
For her sweets no longer edible now, but rather overly salted, instead...
They taste like she sweat & sweat & sweat, & then stood ..upside-down,
& wrung all the sweat into her mixing-bowl from her head.
“I am sorry,” she cried. “It is not my fault."
She echoed, "I am human ....only human.”
What was once~sugared, leaked now:
...nothing, but water & salt.
Haven't gone through and italicized that which should be italicized. Apologies.