More Words

More words; always more words; He's stirring them, into the batter of the day: Putting different flavors Changing the shape of the pan Varying the oven's temperature Using different icings and decorations, In hopes that maybe she won't notice That it's him baking it, this time around. Maybe the words alone, will attract her With their sweet, vanillin score. It's not my fault you're pouring your heart out To a somebody, who would not risk one glance your way Even to save your life. But I don't have to like That you keep on doing it. Outside, hungry birds congregate On the pavement, in expectation Pecking up all the moist, tender crumb Of your latest red velvet heart, Filled earnestly, with the honest plasma Of your simple being: One more cake, she would not even sample. Perhaps, if you baked a file, into the next one To help her to escape her cage of indifference; Stop pretending to be the wounded bird. But be careful; she could always choose instead To stab you, with your well-intentioned gift Just to watch the blood come pouring out, And then, yes; she would finally be happy To lick your warm, savory blood off the street, To suck your hapless soul Into the ravening vacuum she is become- And there are already, so many dead bakers Staring out of the diseased city Of her empty black eyes.