anne.seebach.poetry

the taste of a word  
on your tongue,  
lingering 
with the scent  
of old memories,  
spice-laden flavours 
of your heart 
 
laid down  
in the precarious grey 
depths, waiting, 
synapses sleeping 
 
occasional fluttering 
spark  
 
cherished 
 
those inner vessels  
in which we store, 
distill 
essence of remembered  
time 
and self 
aged like fine wine  
or mouldy cheese 
 
breathing in 
the scent of it, 
breathing out 
 
vivid in ink