Emotion of the Scented Removed
by Aristotle Sinclair

The center rose of a thirteen rose bouquet

resembled an open eye. Her memories

were glazed over its penetrating pupil.

As I stared and became aware of past

occurrences, the first memory arose

of becoming handled softly

by the dainty hold of the recipient’s

elegant control. The rose’s eye was wet

although a life indoors did not allow for

rain to become realistic. As again I stared,

pushed my sober eye into the fascinating

vision of burgundy’s perfume, a tear

was alive, beginning its descent during

an outer rose’s showing signs of

falling limp, its external skin a blackened bruise,

evidence the holder has moved toward

a fresher gift of indoctrinated allure.

 

She, in Darkness though Day is Wide Awake

She danced with the moon’s drawn-out arm,

wrapped around her contemplating waist.

She stated the moon’s constant return

needn’t faith to conjure its specialized orbit,

but understood the partial universal goal of

esoteric love leads her to remain within

this visitation to routine. A ballad

of falling fog sang thickened lyrics.

She befriended sadness, and watched

it cry while sitting atop an abandoned,

murdered tree trunk. Because dawn

mustn’t wait to arrive, the moon’s

drawn-out arm became limp, reaching

for her shadow’s stillness, observing her

sitting sadness atop the trunk’s gnarled

remains.

 

ARISTOTLE SINCLAIR is a poet of neoteric understandings and misunderstandings. He reads Duane Locke and Constance Stadler to become acclimated to excellent poetry. In the rarity of spare time, he reads various texts and quotations from philosophers, and thinks Thelonius Monk is the eiptome of a jazz genius.

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