Why is it?

por ponchoevsky

Why is it
that every time I see you
a golden aura surrounds you
like divinity protecting you
from a tormented soul in the underworld?
why is it
that every time I imagine your scent
and come back from the realms of the mind
I sense a smell of rot
coming from no one but myself?
why is it
that your words are worthy of a poet’s pen
whereas mine stumble across meaning
and fall upon regret?

Why is it
that I know the answers of the questions above
yet still don’t care and will anyway be there?

Why is it?

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