Nakedly bottled.
Capturing bursting seasons
here and now.

Life, delicate in its notes,  
the top notes,
lithe as youth,
citrus and bloom,  
ever briefly,
recondite pleasure,
a suppliance of time
a rush that fades away.  

Heart notes,
the flesh of our days, unfold—  
warm spices, florals, deeper and continues to exude as winter winds careless breath.

In the middle years, the scent sits and blares and mellows—a steady pulse of sandalwood and musk.  

Sultry as the scent may have lingered,
flirtatious colors in the breeze’s hair
the base notes come,
the earthier tones,  
amber and resin,
heavier on the air,  
decays a final wisp
until faint on the skin.

A memory is born.

life's but a walking shadow
a violet in the youth of primy nature
the perfume and suppliance of a minute
    no more
a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard
    no more
forward, not permanent, sweet not lasting
it is a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury, signifying nothing

[ Plus the box ]
Plus the box
It was only until the metaphor and anecdote came rolling around again that
The metaphors disappeared again

A flat bed of polystyrene was the twist, and as far as my mouth could gulp there was no ending.
.
Flow the soldiers proclaimed
Be a dullness upon the dance
Because it's wits are greater than your width
A suppliance of song
Get it wrong
A playful parson
Living in the sticks
Revealing everything to make a stand
For what had been

Take our woes the public said back to the combat
Truth, trust, a reason we need to carry on
A headful of birthday cake was next
But like everything it didn't prevail
What carried on is not to be trusted
Not how I would have explained it
After the birthday cake

Snow bound, brainwashed
Looking for the cost
As much as the wash
Reiterating mouldy ceilings
There was a lot of false grieving
Hands as big as mansions
All searching for a phone
Laughter issues from slithery lips
It's a mystery
God knows the real word
Something like slippery
But more orangutan
Puzzles fall apart
Thats part of the art
And as the meanness recedes
It only grows
Forfeit they did and will again the army
But forget about the songs
They're the only things I care about
Like prophecies I've learnt I Can entangle
Myself without

An eagerness encumbered by too much
Philosophical thought
The lie though, miraculously
I've never bought
A garage door described in
A certain state of mind could change the world
A purpose loaded (pun intended) with suffering
Can animate the industry
Leave me feeling guilty for a bunch of my real people
Still being left on their knees
But progress is key
The game goes on with a plea
Working out x
And stealing the rest
Although I can write
This is no kind of plight
Reasoning with the devil
Will not get you anywhere
Too much love lost
Big lack of interference
All quizzical faces
With no results.
Poonanny LORD.