that smell

that smell

that removal of fear even the fear of death itself

childhood’s wild plant dried in a corn pipe

smelling of the back of a mind

of a place located in time and space

and yet a virtual consciousness that

is gone as soon as it is turned to

ashes floating down into a rough wind

gone in the drying of a tear

in a questioning every time

every time realising it was just once

just one time and again and again

that smell haunts my touch of the live plant

in a desert of understanding i burn

every thing every time

you will not understand 

or that plant

or sadly

even me