Is it not humiliating 

the ways imagination makes fools of us? 

Why refuse to confess it? 

There can be no absolution, will be no forgiveness 

while humid nights reek of this . . . 

of this sickeningly sweet perfume.

I detest it, the way I abhor the voracious green larvae 

of the hawk moth, the way I hate the pageantry of workaday 

lies. Nothing happened means nothing. 

Like this invasive species that does not solely rely 

on sexual propagation, Intention sniffing about for Opportunity 

takes root wherever the ground is easy. Choose 

those excuses with care lest they become your future. 

Only cowards blame nature. Between us, must we accept 

the inevitable stench of this suffocating air?

By Shelly Norris

From: United States

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