Poetry: Malodour

A fragrance drifts
incessantly mists
the hair on my neck
stiffens
is it
reminiscent of lust?

I sense the odor
is in the jar…but
how then
is it that
I smell it?
It being
so far away
and yet
somehow seeping
all around me?

Incessantly creeping
this opiate
from a dark chamber
sleeps in Hamlet’s bed
a dagger seems
easier to love
than the smell of you.

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