Crème brûlée self

They sit on apple-ruby seats, special emblems on chests
Dessert is served! Molten towers of pale sunshine, glazed with deep caramel
are brought up, set meticulously, with simpering looks
They nod, aloof, then raise silver spoons -- 
violently, the instruments dash past,
blow past carefully warmed sugar, torched delicately to crispness
and sink down, down, down
into the heavy acceptance waiting below, 
ladled cream sliding mournfully past unflinching white walls