Acquired Taste

In our palm, a crushed sphere.
A circular glass orb.
Our world, like a snow globe,
Slowly cracking under the pressure
Of pleasure, the stress of leisure,
A common measure for first world acquired taste.

Life is an acquired taste.

We strain to collect that bitter sweetness, that
Pain we so desire to enable the ideology
That our existence has been without vain.

Because those few seconds, those few days, those few years,
All add up to a sum of self worth, from death to our birth,
And yet when our mouth experiences that accustomed taste,
We are, for some reason,
The reason for our own permissive waste.

Life is an acquired taste.

In our palm, a cracked artefact.
We tighten our grip. We try,
Try to hold on,
And in holding on ever increase that compression,
Avoiding that valuable lesson;
That in conclusion, we are disillusioned
To cutting our hands, still clenching our fists, still checking those lists.
The irony of desire
Leaving us cold in the fire.

When and what is true satisfaction?

So my soul will solely feast
On life's bread and water.
A home of mud and mortar.
And if by chance pebbles of gold come my way
I will hold them so close,
So delicately between my fingers.
A treasure to be treasured.
A pleasure to be pleasured.

Life as a common taste
Never an acquired waste.