The cut of a serrated blade
Deals unto skin its bitter blow
Scars will remain, once they are made
The stain of past injuries show

The taste of the acidic trace
That curdles the milk, that turns sour
Bites the tongue and contorts the face,
And lingers on, when feeling dour

The sting of the salt in the sea
On open wounds or tender eyes
Leaves its acerbic taint on me
Through oceans of myriad lies

Tell me, have you mercy to give 
For the pain of an aching heart
Paint a picture of how we live
And let us call it making art

The portion of life’s sweet flavour
Cannot be left to go to waste
The goodness that we must savour
Is gone all too soon in its haste

The bitter, the sour, the salt, the sweet
All life’s sensations to discern
The sluggish, the leaden, the slow, the fleet
Shall wait in time to take their turn.

by Sam Bartle 
(© Copyright  Sam Bartle 2023)