A tired old man groans
As he hand you some
Asian culture cuisine.

Riddled with spices
It tickles the little thing in the back of your throat
As you swallow the substance.

Face now flushed
Like a cluster of fire ants crawling on the hill
Calling it their home.

Home?
Where was it?
Your memory slips.

Glee storms the man’s face
As he studies your expression.

“Seems like you can’t handle such a simple thing."

Clouding your judgement, you bite your tongue
In desperate attempt to knock back the sense
That gone up and left.

However
It fails.

Numb as the lightbulbs turn into bottle-cap suns
Concealing sight
With the light that it shares.

Count as your heart stops
With eyes bloodshot
His crafted words echo
In your failing ears.