Salt
As palates scream for a savored pleasure,
Vapidity lounges about in its lazy leisure.
It lies in its contentment as the rusts appear.
In a monotonic voice it shouts loud and clear.
“I have everything. What else could I want?
I’m the fuel to stoke the fires and beyond.
The self sufficient hand that needs no other,
The seed in the womb without a mother.
Enough is enough for a hard days work.
Keeps the functioning and the vigil eyes alert.
Salt is the flashy hand that makes a move
And paints the sky an eternal blue,
The camouflage that hides the angry skies,
Or the silence that hushes all the lively cries.”
But what is a story without an ending?
Or a day without a sunset impending?
Or a poem without a rhythm to soothe?
Or a lonely stem with no flower to bloom?
Or a proud peacock with no tail to flaunt?
Or a groom beset with no pleasure to want?
Or a still brook with nowhere to run to?
Or a congenial sea left alone to brood?
Or a sumptuous feast with no salt on the platter?
Everything needs something
To give it some life.
What are taste buds for?
