Come to your senses.


The sound of this.

I need to escape from the reverberated, repeated, ear drummed in negative nonsense. I let ivory keys carry me away to a place that’s calm & wax-lyrically free…

The feel of this.

I want to cocoon into mink, to think between Egyptian cotton sheets & duvets quilted by artistic ancestors; let these living bones nestle into a mid-mattress solace.

The sight of this.

I endeavour to dry liquefied, blood-mapped & dilated eyes…to not cry for what I seek but cannot find within retinal memories…

– ***emotionally blind***.

The smell of this.

I must mask this musk; the permeated stink of rancid ideas inhaled that made me not breathe & wake up to a roses blooming aroma.

The taste of this.

I ingest the bitterness upon my upper soft palate, that’s soured with hard things swallowed – chewing the fat, I wipe away rotten crumbs from pursed lips and wish for something sweet.

The state of this…

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