Scented Memories

I was an abstract story to your 

Authenticity driven life, surreal as

The water flowing in your heart and 

Babbling of blood in the endless 

Ocean of infinite love. Post 

Therapy I went to the vintage 

Cafeterias neighbour to my 

Contemporary colony. My home,

A workstation of imagination 

Fuelled by fantasies. Where the 

Nights were more lustrous 

Than morns.

My mama the old

Teacher of a distant school. Walking 

Miles to preach ethnicity. Shabby 

Uniforms, ragged bags. Everything 

The lady encountered stepping 

Out of her advanced lifestyle.

I was a synonym to vagabond

With a mild tint in my definition.

My cigarettes smelled foam and

Soaps of liquor. My bedroom, 

An addiction to rehabilitation.

The breaking stones to eternity 

With pebbles of promises. My 

Life was a sonnet, the one

Never written by Shakespeare.

Delta was I connecting the

Stars of my segmented life. 

My mother, a woman always 

Dressed in her best clothes 

To shun queries with regard 

To the marks she concealed 

Last night. I went for 

Diurnal check-ups.

My mind hallucinated more

Than the kidneys weeping to

The four bottles of 

Rich alcohol I tasted 

Past three nights. I found 

You often between the lines 

Of my yet to be finished plot.

Playing games to peep into

My lungs and check if I still

Smoke weeds or has managed 

To survive on drugs. The one 

You made me high on.