The world seeks out the youth in me
waiting to devour it eagerly
wanting to remember the flavor.
Lukewarm without seasoning,
consuming it---
first body, as sparse appetizer
then soul, as both dessert and entree.

Mistakes are used as marinade
drowned in salt and vinegar
the recipe of all humanity
before I am tenderized,
with each violent flash of the silver mallet.

Finally plated---
on the finest china
surrounded by soft flowing table cloth,
and folded napkin of regret.

Mind the spotless silverware
once cut, the juices begin to flow.
The menu is carried away
and the wine list is red.

I am revealed
then served with a green garnish;
under the nose of unforgiving critics
whose taste buds had withered long ago.