Long overdue,

are you,

a string of words pieced together with glue.

Thin swirls of dough that carry grains of sugar deep within their skin.

Cookie-dough in cursive, baked by my hands like bread from an oven.

Burnt around the edges,

subject to flames too hellish to bare.

Hardened rock, its soft self now dead,

but you can't blame a cookie for the heat that it was subjected to,

nor the ingredients of which it was made.

Nor can one with perfect sweetness be baked,

nor one with texture, God-sent.

You have taken mine,

or are taking it,

tasting the letters upon your tongue,

look upon a writer's many pastries

and you will find them a baker of all sorts.

Eat this one,

even though it is deformed,

as recipes are but mockeries

of the act of creation,

and my fortune-cookie divination

show winds that blow plans astray,

allowing surprise to gift you the fruits of long-awaited expression.

Sudden spontaneity preventing regression.

Let this taste linger,

be the end of your depression.