P E T a L S O F T H E M O O N
The sonnets I’ll be writing about cinnamon would probably not what anyone told you. Yes, it is not that sweet, spicy-hot scent that dispersed throughout soft air. He loathed it. Its smell doesn’t seem crisp and cheery for Drake. Just the thought of it brings him headache, irritating beyond measures.
Some would find that brownish compound to be exciting, reminding them of their joyful family meals. His, was a heavy night with blooming orchids having bladed flowers. Intoxicating. Spreading through the sheets of his foolish yesterday when morning wakes up in heavy black eyes. And yeah, he still believes that sometimes tomorrow isn’t something you look forward to… because days can be illiterate, too. Somber. Discriminating. The world sometimes chooses people to sniff the petals of the moon, then some get a whiff of blood, broken ribs and bruised arms while a jam-packed of delish cuisines were served in an elegant table. Now, tell him where on earth can a kid lives jovial and fair?
From the book “Scentsibility”, an Amazon Best Seller
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Copyright © Sycamore Wild Jinque Rd | Year Posted 2021
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