Scents used to tickle the nerves
residing in this nasal cavity;
now, it seems that all that lives there
is a cavity, dulled to the splendor
of Flora’s careful handiwork,
her scratch ‘n’ sniff tapestry
swept away by the winds of Favonius.
The marriage of fragrance to my sensory
has long since been annulled by a
higher functions deeming petals too
delicate to endure the affront
of a hard logical approach,
too yielding to stand against
the rigid structures that have
usurped their former reign.
Even with pistols, they could not
hold up a shadow of a thought
or a makeshift memory.
They’ve been lost to barrenness
of what my world has become,
a reflection of my mindscape
and the harshness it has adapted.
I’ve forgotten flowers
and now struggle to weave them
into the braids of my words.