Dear Solomon,

Ever since I sensed you smelled of scents,
I've been acting sick.
Not myself, not silly.
Someone else, really
It sends me in to a solitary rage.
A severe-sadistic-rage.
In need of sanctuary
In deed, if saturated with such things,
nothing but sin will grow from the seed.
Saints could fly over us,
if they so choose.
But, no saving us from our sad,sad souls.
And what we sowed, seeped out and showed.
It's floating above the stench of us in suspension.
And we bought what they sold.
Nothing salvaged.
Sadly, im so gone.
Sorry.


Sincerely,
Sasha