Truth Smells like Lilacs

I can smell lilacs in here,

the concert hall is filled

and I must sell my clothes,

I think, and paste flowers

to clear jars to illuminate

my prayers to be inspired.

Inspiration has been distant,

in this one-removed deja vu,

like leaning to smell lilacs,

face submerged, covered

in bright, potent velvet

and finding only blank air

with the memory of scent.

I’ve been in webbed thought

and surrendered senses

to a surrogate self, who, 

I see, smells lilacs 

and I wish to feel the electricity

of participating, but her body

is keeping secrets from me.

The truth in this concert hall 

has slipped between my spinning

of cobwebs, untying silky ropes

that held me prey, making space

for blood to rush in again,

my hands becoming pink again

from flower petals, this pulse

bringing lilacs inside.