Scent of Lonely Days
The air thickens when all is gone
the scent of her dress in violet fumes
hovers in a vain attempt to retrace her form
memory of the voluptuousness of her step.
It may require an Excalibur to cut through the night
artificial darkness rolling in as if a river of black lava
it moans in the agony of distant origins
heavy with the weight of the creation.
But for the murmur of electricity within the walls
all is still in this unlikely vacuum
rich as it carries the perfumes of a giant spark
oppressive to cause the obliteration of a lone soul.
Moist with the musk of past and ongoing eternity
it brings everything to a stop as in death
yet as he inhales the crushing power of this void
ecstasy becomes him, one with all at last.
The Piker Press moderates all comments.
Click here for the commenting policy.