Acrid

Acrid

In the kitchen’s quiet hush, a wisp of smoke curls, Acrid as burnt toast, it bites the nostrils, A sharp, sour tang that tingles the tongue, Like orange zest left too long in the pan.

It rises from the charred edges of forgotten bread, A bitter perfume that lingers on the air, Stinging the eyes, making the throat contract, Reminding us of fire’s fierce, fleeting kiss.

Yet in that sting there is a strange clarity, A wake‑up call that cuts through morning’s haze, A reminder that even the harshest scent Can sharpen the senses and clear the mind.

So let the acrid haze drift, fleeting and fierce, For in its sharpness we find a moment’s truth— Life’s flavours are not always sweet, Sometimes they bite, and we grow stronger for the taste.