Cold Turkey

You, the lingering sweetness of a courtesean's faded perfume. Such cloying fragrance, such deathly stench as I let you, as ever undecided, flood my shattered senses. We are magnets in a slow, tangled dance, bone-weary gladiators circling the ochre sand that mayhaps has always been. This path to hell grows narrow, carelessly fraught with briars and thorns, unspoken words and festered feelings. Tarry a little! An insolent rose petal, gloriously blooming and carmine, spirals from the sky, coruscating.