Mama's Kitchen.

[Source]

There lives the hope for my rumbling stomach,
my big blurry eyes, my weary self,
my dried and expectant tongue,
all waiting to consume some delicious meals.

The mortal and pestle sounding like the reggae and blues,
the boiling meats getting married to the seasonings,
the hot water colliding with the semo powder,
to form a soft and solid swallow.

The pots of soup sing the kitchen's anthem without pouting,
the spoons gently stirring the soup to cuddle with the meats.
And mama's left palm, being touched with the spoon,
then lifted to the tongue; the tasting room.

Mama's kitchen,
the noise from in there delights the hungry,
for it is the like the fulfilment of the prophecy, on the day of Pentecost.

But in Mama's kitchen, the prophecy is;
And ye shall perceive an aroma,
when hunger descends on you,
and in a few minutes, your tongue and teeth,
shall quarrel over the delicious delicacy,
and the tongue shall be hurt,
but the stomach shall be filled.

Thank you for your time.

My pen doesn't bleed, it speaks, with speed and ease.

Still me,

My tongue is like the pen of a ready writer.

Olawalium; (Love's chemical content, in human form). Take a dose today: doctor's order.