The Dying Poet's Dream

A Cliche

The sun rises into a bright new day

You wake to the smell of waffles

Something felt off the past few days 

But you shrug it off

It's nothing you lie

And go down into the kitchen.

There you find the waffles 

What smelled heavenly

Is now rotting and decaying.

The putrid smell fills the kitchen.

The dirty dishes in the sink from last week

The broken plat on the floor.

It all keeps coming back to the same old tale.

She smiles and says 

"I know I said I'd clean up but you're so

Much better at this than I am."

It is a lie and you know

But what's done is done.

You can't make rotting waffles good again.

You can't fix a broken plate.

But you can fix a bad smell and dirty dishes.

She leaves the room,

You are alone. Picking up shards of glass,

Spraying the air, tossing away the decayed waffles.

You would make more 

But the waffle maker is broken too.

You tidy up the dishes and put them away,

Never to be used again.

The same old tale

Of spoiled waffles, broken plates,

And the putrid smell.

You go to look for another waffle maker

There is one left

But a guy who had seen it before you

Swiped it up and took off.

There are no more waffle makers

So you go another day without it

And then, day after day.

What a horrible cliche.