A Brand of Pain ~ Aristotle Sinclair

Her perfume was a melon’s
blood, a sword of suicidal
hara-kiri. An ache belongs
on the lips of a hungry kiss,
her vital leaving of understanding
want, dragged the clock’s hands
to a crawling exhibition. Youth
is this formation of burgeoning
experience.
As she walks into the door of
distance’s creation, her scent remains
a haunting voice, one lying dormant
on the tattered thread of a memorable
embrace.


Aristotle lives in California and has been writing poetry for a short time. He has recently had worked accepted for publication on Writers' Bloc and the Catalonian Review.