Basil.

I dream in tones of
sepia and basil,
nostalgia and a wish to be
cleansed of sorrow.

I long for that aromatic -
CRACK! -
of leaf liberated from stem,
the sweet greenblood
clinging to hands in clouds
better smelt than seen.

I yearn for that piercing scent
to sweep over my heart,
driving forth the miasma of grief
and claiming the jagged and torn edges
in toll for its passing.

No desire, it seems, can
throw off the withering veil
that tinges my days with the relics
of an autumn long past, though.
Not even so fervent a wish
can deny Time her due.

So I languish through lenses
of myrrh and mugwort,
dreamscapes that taste of regret
and a fingertip still clinging
to things best laid to rest.