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The Third in an Unplanned Series of Milk Poems

I pour
The crimson, turquoise and golden
Swirled milk
Of my poetry
Over the brittle
Raisin bran
Of my brain
In it's gray
Ceramic bowl

I try not be heavy handed
But as I'm trying
To figure out
If it's whole milk

I soak the flakes
They squish and break.

But luckily
They were frosted
With sweet anguish.
And the very milk
That ravaged the flakes
But a moment ago
Is now flavored
And ready for slurping.

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