Potato Salad

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Potato Salad

That crooked grin still haunts me,
a bit too wide for the face that wields it.
And those eyes, recurrent in violent
nightmares, chasing me through my mind's maze..
They still leave me breathless
-- But not in the same way.

The sharp twang of that scent follows me.
It is harshly familiar and unrelentless.
Its sweet to the point of being acidic
and mixed with a slight sniff of sour sweat.
Once, this scent filled me with a longing,
but now, I only feel the gruff pinch of reality.

Despite these phantoms of a past life,
everything will be okay. Its not very bothersome.
But still, I will never eat potato salad again.

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Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality.

T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

RxParanoia’s Poems (33)

Title Comments
Title Comments
Sin 0
Glass House Boat 0
Potato Salad 0
Lost 0
A poem from a letter 0
3 Months, 8 Days 0
Bride 1
Treasure Jungle -10
Toyland 0
Old Chicago 0
Ballet is Life 0
Snow 0
Sweet Decay 0
Dancing Tree -1
Long Distance 0
Please 0
Giving up 0
Mirror 0
Mi Amour 0
Satire of Spring 0
Questions 0
I'm Sorry 0
The Dark Knight 0
Z-Day 0
Betwixt 0
Snowy Park 0
Whiplash 0
Strange 0
Anger 0
Twisted Wonderland 0
Me 0
False Hope 0
Jealousy 0