A vignette of struck, a vendetta of taste,
Each chorus of flavors no tongue can waste.
A syllable lingers, a decibel hum,
The robin sings softly—audible yet numb.
Tucked in the branches, a wealth it keeps,
A ticket to wonder where powdered ice steeps.
Lozenge of greatness, mirror glaze shine,
A meticulous craft in the baker's design.
An anabolic rise of the dough in heat,
A rare anomaly when bitter meets sweet.
The robin dips her beak in cream,
A fleeting indulgence, a sugar-spun dream.
Echoes of silence within vendettas feed,
For pleasure's brief and creampied seed.
Each fading churn, each tune gone,
Still in undisolved vigor, the show goes on.