Thought for food

I – I am a morsel of food. I am garnished by the skill of my maker and I have many forms and sizes. Often do I go under the knife and sometimes, roasted to a crisp. 

However, I do forage for justice.

I am perceived by some to be a clogger of arteries, and some to be the epitome of succulence. Some derive pleasures of the tongue, and some call me bereft of spice.

However, I do forage for justice.

Some dip me in gravy, and some apportion me with rice.

By and large, I am clothed with saliva without a second thought, often to be a drop in the ocean of the gastric mucous. I often take my respectful blame for a growling gut.

However, I do forage for justice.

 

Some like me indigenous, and some prefer the outsourced.

Some like me wrapped in old newspapers, others like me bathed and served on silver platter.

However, I do forage for justice.

In the quintillion manners that I may be consumed, I am still foraging for justice.

When was it that I was looked at as a clogger, rather than a provider for a temporary solution for a permanent problem?

When was it more important that I be succulent, rather than cure the hunger so persistent?

When did I become toy of pleasure rather than the scant material of a famine?

When was I awarded with only expensive spice rather than the depreciation of my price?

There is no justice that I find here.

Nay!

I find the true sense of justice when upon engulfed by a man of low means.

The old beggar man - sitting on the road that’s feasting upon me devoid of fork and spoon.

The lesser-fortunate - who is only cognizant of where the bums would rest their heads for the night, rather than the manners of the table.

The old man, who is captivated by my allure simply because of my rarity. The fleeting moment, where god himself who would see in tunnel-vision – where the world would disappear with the scant exception of an old, defeated man and his consumption of the personification of the sympathy of another human.

The old man cares not of my spice, or the liquid gold that I enrich arteries with. He cares merely about the conclusion of the meal, which his efforts to earn have rewarded. The old man's hand does not waiver, in expectation of the missing pinch of salt. He cares not where I have been, or which cauldron has stoked me. He only cares of the fire in the belly that I seek to extinguish.

For it is only upon him consuming me, will my purpose would be fulfilled -- my purpose as a particle of edibility -- my purpose of a being a provider. Only my beggar would feast like a king. I would choose no other.

My liege is one who is not a chooser.

My liege is my beggar.