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Bear Sage
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2002
- Posts
- 1,382
I received this prompt this morning and thought it was delightful. I wanted to share it here and see what the amazing minds and writers of our little community here brought to the table.
Post a link to the song, and then post a poem about what that song tastes like!
My favorite song is Bless the Broken Road by Rascal Flatts.
This is what that song tastes like to me
The Taste of Broken Roads
It begins like warm cornbread,
crumbs falling tender on the tongue,
a sweetness born from hunger,
filling the hollow of years.
Then comes the salt
tears stirred into gravy,
seasoned with longing,
a flavor that lingers at the back of the throat,
both ache and comfort.
Each verse is honey butter melting,
slow, golden,
sliding over the edges of sorrow,
making even jagged crust tender.
The chorus blooms like ripe peaches,
juice running down the chin,
messy, unashamed,
a taste that insists joy survives
even in the bruises of the fruit.
The bridge is coffee at dawn,
bittersweet and grounding,
a sip that steadies the hands,
whispers: the road was worth it.
And the aftertaste
is Sunday dinner at the table,
where every detour,
every burned edge,
every flavor finds its place,
together, whole.
Post a link to the song, and then post a poem about what that song tastes like!
My favorite song is Bless the Broken Road by Rascal Flatts.
This is what that song tastes like to me
The Taste of Broken Roads
It begins like warm cornbread,
crumbs falling tender on the tongue,
a sweetness born from hunger,
filling the hollow of years.
Then comes the salt
tears stirred into gravy,
seasoned with longing,
a flavor that lingers at the back of the throat,
both ache and comfort.
Each verse is honey butter melting,
slow, golden,
sliding over the edges of sorrow,
making even jagged crust tender.
The chorus blooms like ripe peaches,
juice running down the chin,
messy, unashamed,
a taste that insists joy survives
even in the bruises of the fruit.
The bridge is coffee at dawn,
bittersweet and grounding,
a sip that steadies the hands,
whispers: the road was worth it.
And the aftertaste
is Sunday dinner at the table,
where every detour,
every burned edge,
every flavor finds its place,
together, whole.
.
