She ran out of spice-words,

Had nothing more to say.

So she packed up her battered-dreams,

And slowly melted away.

Her mission done like un-baked scones,

        One heart broken and divided

like two eggs frying alone.

A baker's yeast always rises,

From labor's heated life-tests,

With a new recipe of self-esteem,

Generously flavored by success.

She shops for prime ingredients now,

Quality products, where nothing's stale,

Like the rancid lie-stew,

In an over-done brew,

From yesterday's generic mess-pail.

bjd