Dine Out

The soup. 

I invited myself to your house

because you’d share some with me.

I knew it.

A sense of the gut,

it has seldom been erroneous.

A bowl of esoteric wisdom,

as empowering as the mountains 

beneath the concealed ocean 

is on the table.

My palate,

keen to dictate my movements.

The soup tasted differently similar,

it was healthier.

I got irked.

You added an antidote to it.

Why was there an antidote in it? 

I wanted to extract it out of the soup,

I couldn’t.

'Should I drop the bowl?'

I hadn't dropped in, to drop out.

I drank the soup, all of it.

Had I disliked the taste of it?

My palate could not finalize a judgement.

We had talked about antidotes,

you tutored me 

and I can make some on my own.

I even give it to people in need.

I just didn’t want it for myself.

Had you mixed a placebo instead,

I would not have adored you like I do.

The genuineness in your recipe 

served me the best.

If I settled for anything lesser,

my gut would mock me.

Somewhere in this universe,

a learner borrowed a book from his friend,

'The Darkest Night',

it had one of the brightest stars.

'Sometimes what we want isn't what we need.'

©songbriti