Sugar drips from the tongue,
but it is treacherous honey.
The cake of comfort,
the wine of affection
they rot the teeth of the soul
while tasting divine.

Sweetness wears the mask of angels,
yet underneath,
it festers like roses left too long in the vase,
perfume turning rancid,
petals curling into black paper.

We worship what delights us,
but every delight extracts a price.
The sweetest kiss is laced with venom,
the warmest embrace
tightens into chains.
Even love,
that shimmering elixir,
ferments into grief when swallowed whole.

For is not the sweetest thing
the most dangerous?
Like fruit swollen with sugar
just before it collapses into rot.

Sweetness deceives.
Bitterness reveals.
And in the cathedral of truth,
I kneel not before sugar,
but before the ash
because ash, at least,
does not lie.