Like sadness, has its flower and its root, Its shelf life, its price, its paper skin, Its spheres of influence, within, within. It flavors other things-even the sweet Turns strange. It is a kind of absolute. Stored in darkness, it will palely sprout, Laddering upward, crooked and discreet. It feeds upon itself, from inside out. Circular, the logic underneath. Dissecting it will only make you weep. Others, how they will their distance keep Because they smell its perfume on your breath. Copyright © A.E. Stallings. http://www.wlu.edu/~shenando |