An enigmatic poem, by Amanita, that recalls people with taste-buds, exclusively for Different Truths.

My taste-bud-memory
stores in it quite a few deaths.

It was a tropical summer night
tasting of mangoes served as
dessert for dinner, when the
voices around hissingly said
that grandpa was no more.

The young aunt’s, giving in to
the mighty cancer, tastes of
the succulent meat from the
canteen of the hospital, cranial
nerves stupefied in mourning.

Father’s, tastes of the tea in a
winter morning, the nagging
ringtone bearing the weight
of a strange nothingness at war
with the aroma of the fresh brew.

Wrapped inside this gratifying sense,
the stark stories of mortalities, few!

Photo from the Internet