The cookie-dough called to me,

Wishing to cater my captive stomach.

Wishing to whisk me into the kitchen,

And to take the tiniest piece.

It wouldn’t hurt I think,

Before knowing my minds intentions,

My feet drag across the floor.

Floating towards the fridge with spoon in hand,

Waiting to claim my prize.

Moving slower than a snail in quicksand,

The kitchen seems to drift away,

Revealing the smell of raw uncooked potential,

Filling the room with its heavenliness.

After ages of fantasization over the holy dough,

I reached the fridge,

Cracked open just a smidge,

And the sounds of the perfect tune filling my head.

Pulling the container out,

And revealing the scents and smells from their captor.

Piercing the perfect surface with the spoon of pillaging,

To hoist up the colors of browns,

Blacks and carmels

As the kitchen lights hit the cookie showing,

The glow,

The glisten,

And glaze of the perfectly unhealthy nourishment,

Chocolate chip cookie dough,

Food of Kings