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FLOUR POWER
Stood with head slightly bowed
In revered awe and silent
Fingers,
Dutifully cold, and nimble in their move
Dusty white craters with steepened sides
Where butter tumbles in freefall and gels to flour
It peers at me anxiously
As I threaten the creamy mass exterior
Probing my fingers into the neatness
Then pressing my wooden baton as cries yelp forth
Calls surrender as the thinness lies deflated upon a board
Then the surplus drops to the ground
Wasted not,
But full of use
A sun drenched appearance, not tanned,
But golden
Apple juice sizzles as my knife
Makes a wound
Superciliousness is not an attractive trait
As it will discover
The arrogant demeanour
No more
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