A fragrance of, stuck in the middle,
leaving pocket-shots of sorrow,
a kind that lingers on doorknobs.
Trapping one in insomnia’s omens,
listing starboard toward insanity,
playing pachisi with my mind.
In my jumpin’ johnny gown,
stuffed with an opinion,
in my mind’s radiator.
Curling the granite stone,
sweeping the ice,
down the hallway.
Leapfrogging over the Rorschach,
counting holes in my inhaler,
seeking the keeper…of my soul.








Cleverly penned, Adagio. Amazing write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian.