Chasing some lost fragrance,
it spills its mind often
and cannot sop it up.
it will stuff you with promises to throw you off the scent,
hide away its hollowed-out remainder,
and forget again that it has forgotten in the spill.
Failing to self-digest
it prattles again,
tips the glass again,
douses the hearth again,
The fire-warmth reveals the fragrance
open the entrance
while the winter winds take it away.
It should be otherwise.
Go chase the phantom otherwise.
Or else, prop up some stuffed doll by the frosted hearth
and call it your self, and serve it tea.
It is cold
and each bold
will only fester
fail the test of
will only found
the walls of Hubris,
the spectral city
of that sirening lost fragrance.
There are no gestures.
It does not try, but sleepwalks,
for the striving is depleted,
and it is weary.
Full is lighter than empty;
if it can still catch its own rotting stench,
and is not so bent
so as to disown it.