The Death of Smell is in the Air

The Death of Smell is in the Air

The scent filled air enters my nostrils, but reaches not my senses for I am sick.  I am broken and cannot engage in sensory; I am left in destitute, utter misery.  A fly pesters my snout as I breathe in but not out.  I feel as though I am one fifth a dead man, for the roses have as much scent as the sand.  I am only four fifths alive, as I cannot engage in what brings bees out of the hive.  I am lost in this garden unable to be affected, for this world is invisible in lack of scent sensory.  Oh I can hear, I can see, but what good is that to me if I cannot see, with my nose.   Oh flower’s scent is in vain as it grows, fainter in my present perception, Oh how I ask for resurrection, of my nasal sight, so that I can see aromal light.  I can see, but then I cannot, for a flower is but black and white without the color of it’s scent.  Oh where oh where is my precious nose went?  On what has my aromal awareness been spent?  It is gone and it shall not be long until the end of the four that are still alive.  Smell is the first dead in my sensory made up of five. Until then I wait for resurrection into blissful recollection of what I once knew as smell.  My nose now of smell knows not.  The difference between rose and rank odor forgot.  Oh my sense of smell is none but rot.  Oh the bitter despair, my nose for no purpose but air.  I look into illness’ dulling stare, and cannot do so with a care, for sickness cares not none for me.