We are the Cookies.  We judge, be judged.  We devour one another as we are devoured in our predestination back into the earth.
 

The Baker Man

The Baker kneaded
A glob of Dough,
Then plopped some pieces
Into a row.
Some got burnt.
Some were chewy.
Some got dry,
Others gooey.
So similar did they appear,
He named them Cookies
To eat and share.
A pattern does actually exist,
Circular squares upon a Dish.
Who can say it has a Date?
A chip or raisin?
Makes for debate.
The criticized nut,
Or clump of flour,
All were created,
To devour.
Some do crumble,
Some do melt.
Who cares what
They might have felt?

Ciera S. Louise c. January 07, 2009