Parfum (#4)

Mourning has a smell
An acrid odor that
Seeps through the pores
Creeps into the silken threads of clothes
Clings like a shadow

It singes the unsuspecting nose hairs of unwitting passersby,
Brimming with platitudes and goodwill
Perhaps they deserve it

Merciless in its assault
There is no escape

Behind each ear, the décolletage
It settles near the heart

Enters the room first
Follows the sorrowful like a comet’s tail
Noseblind and grief-stricken

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