Aroma Mortis đź’€

Grandfather has been

Dead fifteen years. I put on

My mask today, and

Smelled him in my stale

Sweat, like a revenant. Deep

In my glands, lingers

The old man. Coming

For my youth. Vitality.

Aroma of death.

“Rational truth, root of evil and good.
Round me flew the flaming sword;
Round her snowy whirlwinds roar’d,
Freezing her veil, the mundane shell.
I rent the veil where the dead dwell:
When weary man enters his cave,
He meets his Saviour in the grave.
Some find a female garment there,
And some a male, woven with care,
Lest the sexual garments sweet
Should grow a devouring winding sheet.
One dies! alas! the living and dead!
One is slain! and one is fled!
In vain-glory hatcht and nurst,
By double Spectres, self accurst.” William Blake

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