blood' s, tricky, sticky sweet aroma
trickles over
and seeps in the foolish promise
that is anise,
unknowingly soon to be buried under
clove,
then moss.
the transient gust of innocence that
never fails to surely fade just soon
enough to leave an imprint on your
nose and an empty feeling in your
chest departing from your senses
unseen
unheard yet present even in
it's waking absence.
a whisper followed by eternal sleep
woken only by the sound of
a nose's futile dreams --
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