Chasing some lost fragrance,

it spills its mind often

and cannot sop it up.

While chasing,

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,

to vacate

and ex-spire.

The fire-warmth reveals the fragrance

of decay

open the entrance

sit, dismayed,

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

gesture

will only fester

fail the test of

this pain

again,

every motion

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;

retract,

double back,

go home,

if it can still catch its own rotting stench,

and is not so bent

so as to disown it.