The Human Experience Poem by Rowan Welch

Sensitivity offers no exception-
To the early dawning flower-fields-
Sprinkled with pollen, sweet as sugar cocaine,
Intoxicating the lovely brethren of the the initial contagion.

But, seeing as how you wear you ski masks well,
And quickly stumble past the ailing fields-
Of beautiful, weight-lifting ignorance,
What would be your fall, has now been assigned-
To the patternized observance-
Of the gradually fleeing prospects that follow.

Smaller and smaller they become-
Until what's left is a new experience;
All the same.

This, now, is become a dry hallway,
Satisfied with drums pounding its floors.
Ever so scheduled.
Ever so premeditated.
Ever so routined.

What follows, though, then, is a small, lifting scent-
Reminding he who inhails,
That past events existed.
But the artificial light surrounds and encompasses All.
It blinds, and leaves important feelings forgotten-
Until the afflicted one-
Decides to sniff once more.