Theobroma

I measure bitter bricks,

shaved from unsweetened slabs,

weighing the impulsive thought

of daring,

to taste the bitterness,

licking the rich dark earth of it,

longing to savor

the treasured ancient world

that grew it.

I temper the desire instead,

melting it into a swirling brunette liquor

enriched by sun-thickened gold.

I mix the crystalized syrup

from nature's canes

into powder made from dried nibs.

Their life has been brutal,

dried, roasted, crushed,

until they turn into

the rarest of brown sapphires,

only to be finely milled

for other's pleasures.

I whisk the whites of ovums

until they resemble cirrus cloud,

streaking the sky blue bowl - no longer a clear day.

As if I were born to play mad scientist,

the ink, glitter, and clouds are brought together

with the heart of the harvest,

and just a whisper of expansion.

I unfurl the silken tapestry

and send her into the hearthen forge.

Waves of rich, decadent warmth roll in,

a fragrant tide filling every crevice,

taunting even the lurking ants.

Time's invisible hand lets go,

and a captured morsel on a boat of silver,

lifts to my lips.

I plunder the symphony of indulgence

on my tongue,

and groan, like a lover,

fully satisfied.