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                     A Muffin's Desire                     
                     -by TheTraxicEnd-                     
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                  A Poem To Spark A Fire                   
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A Poem To Spark A Fire
Desire: something Derpy should retire.
Another muffin, another love; the situation is dire.
She sends them in the oven, easy, baking, but bubblin’.
She panics, her eyes crossing as she descends into insanity; frantic.
Pandemic, the muffins begin to burn, scorching, calling for a medic.
No one hears them but her, the lovely blonde who is never deterred.
She takes things in stride, which usually results in a slip and slide.
Whoa, there she goes, her hind legs spread out and hanging low.
Traffic on the freeway? Not for on this day.
“Get out of the way!” says the disastrous mare on the loose in grey.
They heard her calling, and all were sent hauling.
She wants to stop the mayhem, but no end; nothing in tandem.
She continues to slide, now knowing that her muffins have died.
As she mourns for the ones who passed, she adorns the remnants of the ones who dashed,
While those who came close, couldn’t bear but repose
That the mare who came zipping by, hadn’t even said goodbye
For the cross-eyed mare on the loose, was nothing but a muffin recluse.
Ever since that frightful day, the mare named Derpy sits tight.
She needs to have this go her way, nothing can go wrong.
She honors her muffin warriors' desire, their reason is for this plight.
With the focus of a tiger, she focuses on the melody of the song.
The harmony is enticing, no crossing may be in writing,
For the swinging and swaying of her hips, give way to a flick of her lips,
As she stares down the package, longing for the wreckage,
The longing for the treat, so ready to greet,
And long last, she begins to have a blast.
Chowing down on the meal, her eyes never steal,
A glance at the wall, no pony too tall,
For her eyes can’t define, the stark notion of mine.
My name is not important, but I am a correct quotient.
Not that math matters, only those can have-at-her.
Luckily I speak in modes, many ponies hear my tones.
Except that one mare, her hair straight as my train fare.
“I can’t help you mister,” she tells me, her eyes free.
“Ms. Sparkle is playing twister,” she explains, she never complains.
“The others are joining with her,” she responds, this always corresponds.
“And I am to be the decider,” she finishes, her joy never diminishes.
I ask Derpy why she wants to observe this game.
“Because Twilight is too tame!” she squeaks, her ear tweaks.
“Rainbow Dash says she’s lame,” she offers, the stark contrast falters.
“But I don’t think the same,” she expresses in kind, nothing too inclined.
I give Derpy a leftover treat that I could not eat.
“Oh, I can’t take this,” she dismisses as a ball nearly misses.
I hoof her another, concerned but not like her mother.
“Did that cost a lot of bits?” she asks, not bothering to see my underlying task.
I smile and shake my head, not even a pile of bits were spent for this stead.
She mumbles, her eyes positioning tumbles. “Thanks.”
A blush adorns her face, what a pretty sight that I wish to trace.
She smiles back, giving me a small sack.
Now it’s my turn to deny, I mustn’t take the economic pie.
“But why did you reject this?” she thinks I am remiss.
Because a stallion doesn’t take a mare’s medallion.
She giggles, her brow nearly wiggles. “I don’t have one of those silly!”
Boy, she acts like a filly.
I stare at her eyes, mine set on the prize.
I step closer and rub her shoulder.
“M-mister,” she stutters, scooting away as she flutters.
I ask her if she’s got a coltfriend.
“No one wants a dead end,” she quietly states, her eyes changing rates.
I tell her that’s not true, that’s nothing but a ruse.
“R-really?” she begins, “It’s not a wrongful muse?”
I bring her in a hug, she’s not under the rug.
She blushes and grasps me in her clutches.
The two of us stay together, not desperate for the other.
She rests her beautiful face upon my foreleg as we sit to watch the game, avoiding those angry glares like the plague.
I bring her close for a nuzzle with my light red muzzle.
She lets out a cute giggle, our fur beginning to mingle.
I watch as mainly six mares tango, hopelessly tripping and dang-they-go.
The three fall first, one landing on her girth, but another three remain for the thirst, while those who failed hope for a rebirth.
She sees the Pink one faltering slightly.
I see her too, her stance hanging just rightly.
If she could get the right color…
...she could be in for another.
I lie with my Derpy as we watch them stay thirsty.
For victory doesn’t come for those in quite a hurry.
As the color wheel lands on blue, the Pink one abides by the rule:
“Don’t pull a sly one Pinkie,” I hear the blue one announce.
“Who do you think I am Dashie?” she responds, causing the other to bounce.
The Dash falters, tripping over the moving mare’s boulders.
The Pink one places her hoof on all the right colors.
Only two remain, nothing can be the same.
“Come on Twilight, you can do it!” the fallen ones cheer for the dame.
I stare at the alicorn, her attire really torn.
Poor nobles, they rushed to get her doubles.
She wants to stop, so she can halt those on top.
For they care too much about her, and not enough about each coin purse.
The sacks slap on the counter, no hidden meaning for this founder.
She could hear them wrapping, the joyous thunder of sacks are playing.
Unfortunately that alicorn gets her wish, the little wrinkle in time transports her into a dish.
The collision affects her vision, the decision was clear: always pay attention to what you are near.
Derpy and I laugh at her despair, we’re not afraid to let our hearts be fair: pain at this level is definitely rare.
The others sigh, their cheers for naught; Twilight lets out a cry, she cannot stand the painful thought.
“I lost,” she says with a grimace, her eye seeing the dimmest. “Good game, Pinkie.”
“Thanks Twiley!” she says with a nice, large smiley. “I can’t help but thank Ricky, our human with a dickey.”
The human stands tall, proud of his shortfall; the dickey is round, but very profound.
I nudge my Derpy and point to the west, for there is nothing here, nothing to jest.
I ask her where should we go from here.
“I don’t know, why don’t we go there?” She points at the train, the neverending, yet lovable stain.
I stop and stare, before smiling to declare, “Let’s go Derpy, there is no time to spare.”
She smiles and follows me in, our hooves clinking to the tin. “Where does this go?”
I give her a grin to show. “There’s only one way to find out as we travel to see the true thrill of one town named Ponyville.”
She nuzzles me as we sit in our booth, hanging ten and smooth.
For Ponyville is ahead, a new life and a new bed.
Hopefully this stays together, or I’ll be hanging by the ball and tether.