Like burning incense
I find that you surround me,
with the lightness and curvature of wafting smoke,
peppery and aromatic when stirred with the sense of the world.
Like a salve that’s seeped through my skin, the medicine has been doing it’s work inside a pulsed fever,
burning some old demons, who pretend to perish rattling their cages.
So if you have hired the craft of a Faye apothecary,
I am fallen
and my name is David.
But if the whiskey has been presenting mirages it may be that, next morning, a cold shower is in order.