The Smell of a Flower

Not like the sad empty self
but a weird longing and lonely

Bringing with it a sense of guilt
of some sort
And a wish that hasn't been used yet
And a vision that can't be perceived

We can't really move, but if I wanted to
I probably could
Had I not said anything, it would be worse
but better

Maybe with some anticipation something is happening
Something more is being made
Or just stored away for a future with more
More things
and more attainables

Anyever the case may end up being
I'm laying on a smooth, jagged rock,
with curves and turns,
bumps and jumps,
all about it.

Something may be happening, but I'm stuck still in a place,
in a spot,
with irons and maidens with the pricks dulled down,
and iron turned rubber

And the cold is relaxing, embracing with a touch on my fingers and face
The pain could be left without, but the memory leaves me touched and struck