Griddle play

there are days when all seems lost
There are times when you wonder
If you will last

Feelings running laps around your ever heavier soul
The starting pistol gripped in your hand
Knowing, but wondering still if it would do the trick

And then you smell,
The wonderful aroma, of breakfast being created
On the griddle

The griddle
Savior of days past
And days to come
The sizzle, you lose during the day, and into the disturbance
Of your sleep

The griddle that makes you
Wonder what could go wrong
The answer of course being everything

But for the moment

The griddle
Fills your being with hope
Gratitude, love
Yes love for the griddle,
Above all else.

The griddle

Fresco lightscore

tortured greystone , pockmarked granola
The grease of a millinea
Sandblown scar tissue of ancient scarabs
Filled with peanut butter

Pairs of watered pansies
Standing guard
Never realeased tissues branded with wheat based love
Keyboards plucking sound as
A ghastly tuned beam of  light
Measures the space between the
Teddy bears ears

Make haste, screams the mute lizards of the Sahara
Desert pie dessert heat it
Whomps the sky beaver
The time lost is never
A senselessness  subscriber of
Failed holograms
Beat  space beat space beat
Time differs to each persons peach cobbler
Eat well eat full
Worn down shoes made of
Used candy wrappers
Carried by pigeons
Through the navel
Of  a pig
Hear the qualms
Desire pestilence
Leave the crowded streets
Duck

Once a bun
Never a pepper
Through the wet light all shall see
The grace of Jimmie paper clip and wicker mall hall
Pterodactyls grace the placemat of jazz infused hollows
Great splat of booze sippysaucers grip the wheel, and yet
The tomcat spins