In the mixing bowl
thou hast perfected praise.
Conforming to your mould,
your flaky crust begins to rise.

Steamy and buttery out of the oven,
you make my life chill,
when the morsel of butter enters the
    blueberry canyon
to have its fill

Chemically inducing nirvana,
a world in the eye of God,
blueberry bursts of epic epicness
down my throat you trod.

In my stomach you swim, my friend.
"It is not good for muffin to be alone,"
pop goes the cherry muffin to join you,
and in swims a blueberry clone.

Nom nom nom.

The citizens all around the world
    have eyes that look like crystals.
Everyone is actually born with the same eye colour.
The same eye colour is blue.
Everyone knows that eye colours change.
Every time people grow up,
    they start to change their eye colour.

I stare out of my cubicle window
to see a sheet of solid water
creeping, building, cragging, steeping

I come to, from out a merry winterland
and feel the urge to write a poem
about a scene worth painting.

My magnificent mundane.
Tedious tasking and chores galore!
Unappreciated.
And disregarded as un-glamorous duty.
But there is something to be learned in folding loads of laundry.
Patience.
Satisfaction through servitude.
Attention to detail.
And most importantly... attention to Love.

A panicked red flash
Flying from a loud rude crowd.
Bustling, beating, branded brutes
Do not make mother proud.

Quickened feet through cedars. Ferns.
The chase is on. Her time's undone.
For when the master of her castle wakes,
She'll be there for the taking by One.

Fields of music
And caverns of light,
Fill me with
A void of night.