The Rare Taste

We all start in the same place,

ready to run, bunny loops tied, primed for the clap.

Only we end at different parts of the race,

bow out to the crowd or vanish mid-lap.

What is made of the day, we know

becomes our replay. Yet still we spend the time

looking for another to witness our climb.

Begging be heard, and dying to be seen.

But what else is life for, if not the taste

we dare not waste. To be understood

without being felt. To be stripped, gutted, held

wide open, then carried to calm by what stays unspoken.