All the confections in the land 
sat atop the table in front of her, 
and she pondered and pondered 
which would be the most delicious, 
the most scrumptiously saccharine, 
and she deliberated and deliberated – 
paralysed with indecision 
over which would be the most devilishly divine dessert. 

Pick carefully, she berated herself internally, 
what if what I choose 
isn’t as amazing as what I could have? 
I have to pick one, I have to pick 
the right one,
she bemoaned the burden, 

the privilege, of having choices 
somehow never thinking to taste a forkful of each plate, 
so blinded by her quest for the perfect pastry was she, 

until finally, there were no more sweets to be had at all. 
Perfectly fine cakes, now all rotten, dry, 
past their prime, 
in a search for an elusive purity. 

Too much time had passed, and it was too late. 
Before a buffet of just decaying desserts she would have to lay 
hungry, wanting 
never having tried a single slice.