In my brain, the cake was unlimited,
but that was not reality.
It is probably just as well
that the cake was limited,
for how long could I have had my cake
and eaten it, too,
and still maintained the girlish figure
for which I’m known?
Still, I thought I had forever cake
when I did not.
Why is that?

Perhaps it was wish fulfillment,
where I believed the incredible:
that every piece of cake before me
was evidence that there would be more cake
and more
and more and more and more
until I was a shape seen ’round the world:
a man who would be cake.

Possibly, it was all a dream
where I went to the buffet
and, having paid the price of admission,
had access to unlimited ambrosia-items.
Maybe my brain insisted that this was a just result
of market exchange.

I was so sure I could contain multitudes of sweetmeats
but it was truly not so.
The cake had a conclusion.
It had parameters.
I could not dine forever.
I suppose I shall have to live with that.