the oak memorial
it was less than heavy
the smell was more subtle than strong,
an ethereal or angelic waft
though my nose is often wrong,
but I recall it so vividly
a scent of a time when i was young,
drawn out into a winter
so nuclear and severely wrong,
it reads a tale of someone else
a person of delicious maverick intent,
not the man of soulless vision
that i so sourly lament,
but soon the varnish shall peel
and it’s flesh shall splinter soft,
and the memorial of another soul
will be scattered to time and forgot,
