Short Poem #3 - Bread

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Love was baked by two

In an oven called intimacy.

Two bakers prepared the bread

Until it was timely ready.

Brownish. Beautiful. Fresh.

Vanilla smell covered the place

They cut the butter in half

And spread it over the bread.

After weeks, months, and years.

“Again? We’re baking the same bread?”

The tabletop is getting full.

No more empty space for this loaf of bread.

Then the bread goes stale.

Unattended at a corner of the kitchen.

Did it fail?

No, love did not.

The bread sits and waits to be disposed.

Whose turn is it for the next trash run?