The Scent Singer

She spins silks from scents;
the weaver of words, the seamstress of stories

coloured ribbons in her hair, circling softly,
spirals sigh with secret senses

she sings with whispers of woodsmoke,
of benzoin and myrrh, jewels of frankincense

her lyrics are made from the colours of a dusk sky;
her music, with newspaper ink and cinnamon bark—

and when she paints, her palette is formed of
pink pepper, violet ionone, amber and hedione;

her canvas will be just a touch of vapour,
a spritz of breath upon warm skin…


    Could you know?
looking into the depths of
your alcoholic euphoria,
that crystalline glass, golden mirage,
facets reflecting rays of--

    Could you know?
leaning to breathe in
her subservient seduction,
the cocktail hour's concoction,
ten tangles of the temptress--

    Could it be—
all within a delusion, within a dream,
within a spectral truthful stream?
    Could it be—
this phantom’s fantasy is no more than
the extracted essences of ecstasy?


She spins silks from scents.
coloured ribbons in her hair, circling softly;
she sings with whispers of woodsmoke—
  her lyrics are made from the colours of a dusk sky;
  her music, with newspaper ink and cinnamon bark,
  pink pepper, violet ionone, amber and hedione.

Could it be?
…just a spritz of breath upon warm skin…