The scent of a sinner
The fresh roses turn pinker, dwelling outside the garden of the lilies,
The wrinkled skirts smelling of cheap perfume, stinking of midnight sillies,
The footsteps in the empty corridors, the heel to their Achilles,
The birthmark on the neck, the missing toothbrush in the can,
The dust under the shoes, the unannounced dinner plans,
The misplaced phone calls, the green pills on the nightstand,
The children in the fields, playing until its dark,
Watching them live in singularity, searching for answers like the lark,
Faking a smile, the burnt cigarette leaving its mark,
Wandering in the withered winds, writing a memoir,
Tearing the sinned papers, watching the two from afar,
Laying under the blue midnight ceiling, waiting for her car.
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