There is a cake on the table

Savagely torn by

fingers and forks.


Well yes,

of sorts.

The rest of our garage?

Well its meant to seat many

And many it did

But no true adult

Or that would be a fib

I sit alone in our garage

Seeing the aftermath of children of sorts

Debating to eat that cake of yours

In the highest of moral courts.

But instead I sit here and I write

About how I have responsibilities and

can’t stay up all night.

A fresh cake would be great

But I’m late, it’s just not my fate.

Now the cake is old and my taste buds are dry.

Even though I am young, I am not that spry.

I spend morning thinking in philosophers seclusion

To pull down the curtains of this grand illusion.

And though this cake and I deserve the Marital Union

I digress and remember the philosopher’s exclusion.


Aka Adminogre

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