Quick edit ~ had to format the poem 😬 posting again!

They heard the sun rise 
in the crack of a shell 

as the day's aspirations 
spilled onto a strict griddle 

and sometimes the sun simply 
cocoons itself in a fever, 

poached in the liquor of dreams 
of yesterday but not today, 

for they scramble up the momentous 
orbs, defining time in the ribboning 

of yellows and whites until it congeals 
into the brilliance of light on a plate. 

They call it breakfast. 
What injustice a word can do.