this should be the scent of a flower; the representing power. an aromatic soul
letting go.
sensations flow
from spring shower. this sweet smell on my shirt
giving birth
in night hour. what the hell am i to do? close my eyes,
realize;
inhale that smell of desire. though try to fly,
the blue of the sky;
the blue of her eyes:
they're too high and i cower this flower,
this shirt of mine,
retains the sunshine in my mind.
i'm going blind from her smile. i walk a mile,
i run a mile,
but the side of the road
inhabits no
blossoming buds
that beat
the same sensations
to my brain
as spring rain
for this flower.
so i cry.
try to hide
the sigh of my soul;
the deep lull
devastating
this tough demeanor
i've tried to create.
but it's too late.
i'll suffocate
in this abyss.
i miss her face, her laugh,
her smile.
the power of this flower
makes worth while
the wait. there's no denial;
this scent's on my shirt
for a reason. the trees are weavin'
in the breeze and
the sky's clear and
the air's clean
and my tears
wash the fears
from the soil. so spring up,
rise like the sun
just begun
on a summer's morning. bloom,
blaze,
whatever it takes
to produce that
same elusive scent
that sends
me spiraling to the floor. i can't ignore
that stone fact
alone in the corner: what formerly
cleans clothes
will wash what's
last left
of this flower
from my shirt. so i trek back down
the depths of my soul.
shirt drenched,
shirt clenched;
listening
to the sizzling sound
of my tears
meeting
the hot fires of hell. church bells blaring the forlourn.
trees come to hault.
clouds invade the sky.
they've all come to mourn the lost scent of love. | 
