The cake is set, ensconced behind the glass
becoming more delicious by the hour.
It seems the shafts of sunlight strike it so,
that they expound its crystal glories more.
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And here am I, condemned–or doomed–to wait,
until the moment I become sixteen.
But fingerfulls of fluffy frosting taste
as icognito good (don’t ask)
as if my patience passed the finish line.
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Impartially committed, here I stand,
and lion-like encircle round my prize,
and wonder how I might abscond a piece
while technically not breaking a command.
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The floor boards creak, an ominous report
that fires like a pistol through the house.
It brings my dormant conscience racing back,
reminding me I am not–yet–sixteen.
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This describes me when I see cake
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