Scents Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

' I am', said Fyodor Zotkomsmolskyin,
exactly what you see.
Wheras you understand
that not all traits are lit,
like amber lanterns in a foggy moor.

'You are advised therefore, to ask yourself,
have I alerted you to silent, hov'ring pleasance?
Has your pituitary picked up my scent?

Deep inside dark caves of heavy stones and mossy boulders,
among the ruins of battles fought in rowdy decades,
there lives a spirit that has given me MY life.
It is the only entity to have the privilege to hold my hand.

This spirit looks like me, in its own ancient way,
it talks and acts, a bit more gnarled and somewhat creaky,
but is aware and all-approving of my sotten nature,
and holds the reins around my bony shoulders with much care.

'Idiosyncrasy', this spirit named me glibly,
then adding that no dullness ever could hope to survive,
due to the inborn and well-nurtured roguish constellation
of particles uniquely stuck together.

The way it works, of course, is when my life is over,
a new assigneé takes my vacant place at once.
If I was true and genuine in days I had occcasion,
but not in others then the verdict has been harsh.
However, be yourself and do not stray from your own path,
the chance reward may give a second term of life..

I am aware that this smells of the sewers of religion,
a promise to enforce lifelong tacit compliance.
It is a wonder that so many people do like carrots
and fail to see all sticks due to their poor and failing vision.

It matters not, cause Heaven has no beer.
The rules of dress permit brown sandals but no purple tie.
Remember counting sheep, eyes closed, then you must know,
that one leaves all ID in a green basket at the Pearly Gates.

St. Peter, a few angels, of course God
are individuals but no one else has any rights.
But I digress, let us return to ancient sites of spirits,
I cannot change my rather crimson DNA.

My name means little, Madam, almost nothing.
But WHO I am is what you get if you decide.