Little green fingers, not chipotle or jalapeno
Just one name “Chilies”, an oxymoron of sorts

They can be found in cucumber and tomato salads
As chopped or sliced green wonders

Or near a basket of pappadam, where darkened red
Crackers can be seen embellishing the culinary full moons

They only accessorize without holding center stage
Littering the corners of banquets and buffets

Bequeathing scorching hot adventures into a universe
Few can survive. A strain of boldness as brave as

The knights of Camelot. And Scoville is show-ville of little explosions
Ticking time bombs of lethally spiced capsaicin….

Capsicum is always a little foray into a bright red world
Where only the courageous-at-heart survive

Bravery is letting your tongue glide through
A circle of fire, and burn marks on receptor ends

Are a taste few south Asians can ever resist. And fire
Tasters just hold a little rod of burning red pepper

Inside their mouth cavity and let fireworks
Dazzle on meadows of sensation. Fire eaters

Are like dragons firing with their mouth’s closed.
They are nuclear explosion into pure gratification.

And indulgence is a little fruit that masquerades
As the maiden Cinderella of true spiciness

And her inbred flavor is as lingering and transparent
As a slipper made of glass.

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