Bake.

Flour, butter, and lots of sugar,
castor, demerera, and icing,
the reassuring dependability,
that cakes will be sweet,
breads will rise,
and cookies will brown.

Adorned with beads of sweat,
battling an over-sized glass bowl,
ladle held tight, in that kitchen,
the luscious semblance of control,
fleeting, yet firm.

Non-surgical syringes with myriad fittings,
performing plastic surgery on imperfections,
pumping out icing, make-believe moment,
that lines of worry, however many,
smooth them out, one at a time.

When all the stirring and mixing is done,
the number game, celsius and minute.
till it's just done, an aromatic reminder, maybe,
to do what you can, and wait with time,
for life, to happen, to just get done.

Insignificant

Of satsuma flavored skin,
unruly strands of hair, aroma
of bananas, and lavish spray,
of tea tree mist.

Of soft mounds of fat,
over once-emaciated flesh,
time's victory over metabolism,
hard-gained normalcy.

Of a stranger in the mirror,
one step short of lunacy; eyes,
roving for a familiar line or mark,
for a sign of life.

Of the puppet-master's prop,
nonchalant at best, unmindful
of the distance,
or the direction.

Of the desire to willingly submit,
and be carried away, into
nothingness.