Memory-sense faded swiftly
at first. The eye peeled of visions
from the inside out-
an inverted onion with layers shed
backwards. In time only surface remained
with its salt water shallow, drinking
the light as it emptied of sting.
Then sound fell mute, echoes stripped
from the skin drawn taut inside-
beats, of all once hammered deep soon absent.
Like their drummer,
out of tune and hushed away from ancient care.
The smells still linger, hooked between now
and then, a cheap perfume whose staining scent turns
in mind as wine, ever more expensive with age.
Gold trophy winner
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