Cinnamon Crust

Cinnamon crust of days lost,
burnt buns embrace the faint echos
of some thing once resembling life

Broad brushstroke waves,
black on black,
delineate the life of night

Vibrations from a vivid world
far beyond the battlefield
fail to penetrate the void

Kisses from strawberry lips,
virgin desires spiral down
the abyss of the unimaginable

I am a clock without tick or tock,
an umbrella on cloudless days,
a shoemaker for a skylark soaring;

a cinnamon bun, black as black,
the unfinished painting
you never get to hang.