Her smell is that of a symphony of sadness,
melting my memories into moving molten madness,
like that in the heat of a volcano,
She drips dreariness down my spine,
as I bend beautiful words into ryhmes,
why is it always her that comes to mind?
Finding my failures in her front lobe,
waiting to be exposed,
like her lava they’ll flow,
how cold that can feel,
no one else knows.
She tingles down into my toes
and it’s not darkness that grows,
not with how red red her rage glows,
forming rivers of reminders running wild inside,
they harden into foundations,
the ones I can’t hide.
You can only imagine,
how warm it must feel,
to be in love with a girl,
who’s made of fire and steal,
she’s burnt into me,
like the scars on our hearts,
but it is when I smell her,
that I fall completely apart.
NV. – Written on March 29, 2018 started @ 11:15 a.m. finished @ 11:46 a.m.
Poetry & Art By Scotty Foote 