Poetry: Perfume Made Sweet

Sweet Perfume in the air and it’s dinner time,
I’m walking home by the cafe.
It’s humming quietly in this little coastal town,
And I tell myself I’m okay.

Because the perfume in the air it’s thick and sickening,
The feeling of scented hair I’ve been lost in,
Loveless tresses and dresses I should have never known,
They haunt me now as I pass under a street lamp’s pale glow.

It’s like a Monet in this moment,
All the soft colors blending together from afar.
But the muted hues are covering something.

Something deeper, darker, and different altogether.

They just see a boy walking,
And they think he has it all together.

A casual smile tells me this.
And for once, post-impressionism becomes clear.

It’s the sharpness of the perfume,
Transmuted into softness.
And in this subtle mask,
We peer into the artist’s veneer.

He takes us where he cannot go.
Because in a painting as in a poem,
There is no longer any fear.

A Cafe Terrace at Night, Vincent  van Gogh
A Cafe Terrace at Night, Vincent van Gogh

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