Contemplating, resting spot.
Pillow made of Gouda…
Seams to rip spaghetti strings from my cranium.
Since I felt everything, I told them.
Awash with cookies and empty containers of crème.
Diamond glass heart of cheese.
Centered, I used to feel mozzarella.
Sadly, those days left when she did.
Easily broken peace; lost & grating
Marble and Gorgonzola, sliced with care.
String broke again weakness of green.
Without climate control.
These actions, These feelings.
So I tore off before you could retrieve me.
Too close, I ran from mighty cheese.
Fermenting without purpose in unknown cave.
What will I become? Will I be gruyère or the grave?
Maybe just rind, garbage.
Nothing to be save.