There’s ants on the cake.
It’s lined with wilting flowers and ants mingle in thousands upon the hardened frosting that’s struggling to hang on.
No cake this decrepit is edible.
It’s vile and would poison any mouth it came near.
There’s ants on the cake and they’ve multiplied.
That doesn’t mean that hope doesn’t rest inside.
Tight pockets of lasting moisture are shielded and infiltration seems unlikely.
There’s ants on the cake.
No one wants them there.
BLONDE ON BLONDE 