Anton Ego
He sits, pen poised, a sword wielded over white plates,
his words a hunger sharper than knives.
Each morsel faces his judgment, stripped of warmth,
weighed by precision, never savoured, only dissected.
Shadows deepen in his eyes, an appetite for perfection drowning joy.
He demands mastery, turning food to calculations, turning creation to fear.
The world watches his verdicts, but his table remains empty.
Then comes the dish—humble, its scent catches him off guard.
Steam rises, carrying memory, a kitchen,
a home, a boy greeted with care by the hands that cooked for love, not applause.
A single bite cracks the armour.
The critic falters, his pen quiet, his palate alive.
The flavours whisper of simplicity he had long dismissed.
They remind him of what he had forgotten:
that art is not built to be conquered, but to be felt.
He sets the pen down gently.
His words that follow are softer,
an ode to the risk of creating,
to the courage of pouring oneself
into what might be torn apart.
In his silence, he lets the warmth remain.
From the shadows of scrutiny,
he steps forward, a man who understands,
finally, that to taste is to connect.