The tongue once lived in sweetest lands,
Where honey dripped like golden sands.
It danced through syrup, soft and wide,
With velvet dreams it could not hide.
Beneath the sky, a sugared sea,
Where flavors danced in harmony.
And every taste, and every sip,
Was joy that melted on the lip
Around it spoke of flavor rare,
Of something rich beyond compare.
“They call it truth,” the voices said,
“Then why’s it left so dark, unsaid?”
The tongue fell still, its sweetness thin,
An itch began to burn within.
“If there is more,” it thought, “I must
Let taste decide what I can trust.”
Curious now, the tongue grew bold,
To chase the myth the whispers told.
With trembling hope, it reached and tried
To sip what others left denied.
But what it found was not delight —
A taste that burned, a wound of bite.
The sugar fled, the silk was torn,
Its buds were seared, then split and torn
The sweetness slipped beyond its reach,
No golden drip to calm or breach.
What once was rich now felt so thin,
As bitterness crept deep within.
It searched again for something sweet,
But found no sugar it could meet.
Its buds, once soft with joy and light,
Now knew but ash and endless night.
The others watched but turned aside,
Their mouths still sweet, their comfort wide.
They offered nothing—not a sound—
Just stayed within their sugared ground.
It whispered low—no choice remained,
To taste the bitter that none had claimed.
Its sweetness gone, the wounds run deep,
Still must it sip—no rest, no sleep
