As I walked past the garden,
a scent had grown therein,
gliding over plant and earth
and said, “I beg your pardon.”
The sweetest scent so aromatic,
turned my head to see,
the flowers lifting up their heads,
and struck so automatic.
In their garden hidden,
so many different kinds,
whose scents arise to float
on air as they have often ridden.
With lilt a breeze gives me a jilt,
and on my cheek it plants,
scents of lavender caress,
floating aloft a flowerbed.
Love is joyful,
Love is pain,
Love, a sweet smelling flower,
Pulls me to its scent,
And kills me with its breath.
Love stabs me with sharp petals,
And lashes, with fiery forest green leaves.
With every torturous gasp I take,
I whither.
Love’s entrancing, enticing entity,
Takes me in,
Holds me,
Stabs me,
Caresses me,
Cuts me.
This seesaw love,
It plagues me,
My head it whirls and twirls about,
Love stalks my smitten soul.
By L. M. Montes
WRITE TIME AND AGAIN 