Trace of a Memory: A Sonnet

Trace of a Memory

The smell of geraniums removes me,

the petals, bruised. A cloying perfume, sweet

but sickly. Blood bright, seeping into sea,

the memories unbidden, incomplete.

I close my eyes and try to capture them,

impossible, they spill through cracks, escape.

An image, poignant, lost. I try to stem

the flow. Unwinding celluloid, black tape.

The moment gone. The stench transformed, a gross

last trace of something fleeting, lethal dose.

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