the sharp, silver blade
pierces the surface
as the crimson mess of a dream
very still, the surface doesn't crumble.
still, the surface doesn't crumble.
steadily, it flows, the liquid.
thick, but runny.
it flows out of the open surface.
she cries, weakend.
oh, why must it happen to her?
she had worked so hard!
oh, when the blade cut it open,
the berry pie revealed its crimson insides.
please do not copy this, because i wrote it.