The green galbanum armor is back on,
as the option to forget it is gone.
The amygdala’s easily hijacked,
but afterward there’s not much to unpack.
Like the rose and its thorns, feelings can be
so clichéd; but aren’t they, too, currency?
Always the fear that something’s slipping by,
but what? I never have quite enough thyme.
I miss, on days that seem to have no end,
the wisdom of dearly departed friends.
Like resins that bleed from a wounded tree,
written words conglomerate out of me.