Aroma

The smell of Death like Skunk

Hangs in the air when you get old

It lingers in your clothes even

when you re not the one who’s

Drugged or cold

Both are not spoken of in polite society

Their scent sticks in your throat

Though both brings on an

a different kind of high

When the world slips away easy

And you no longer think of life

And wonder why?

© Bernard Pearson