06/09/2021
Camey5000
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Camey5000
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My Amber No. 56
Les Exceptions - Ambre Redoutable - Mugler
My Amber No. 56
.
Stranded. Cast upon the sandy shore.
.
Old timbers I follow into a dry savannah. Along the towpath of curiosity. Towards a wide hollow. A field of amber. Dark under a hot sun. Steps, on to a little mud. What is it that surrounds me? Brown mud. Derb wood. Ungreen, maybe like dried Welwitschia, (but who knows the smell of dried Welwitschia?). So blossoms they are not. Tart. Vinegar in molecules. And wood and wood again, like driftwood, carried ashore.
.
Hoping for rescue.
.
A shady spot brings me earthy peace. Above, a light breeze, light as forgotten almonds. It does not satisfy my hunger. Not marzipan. No, translucent labdanum. A hint of cistus. Maybe like dried gentian root, (but who knows the scent of dried gentian root?). And a hint of rose. Rose of nowhere. And amber like dust. Thick dust. Balsamic. No smoke and no resin. And no sweet.
.
Everything hangs in the brown. Occupying dust. Heavy-duty powder. Blocked nose. Alp in throat and breathing. Barely delicate rose on the horizon. Mirage.
.
Long, monotonous dying. Oh, could I die for this. No! Yes! - 9.0 - A dying for lovers. .
.
My demise.
.
7.0
**
My Amber No. 56
.
Stranded. Cast upon the sandy shore.
.
Old timbers I follow into a dry savannah. Along the towpath of curiosity. Towards a wide hollow. A field of amber. Dark under a hot sun. Steps, on to a little mud. What is it that surrounds me? Brown mud. Derb wood. Ungreen, maybe like dried Welwitschia, (but who knows the smell of dried Welwitschia?). So blossoms they are not. Tart. Vinegar in molecules. And wood and wood again, like driftwood, carried ashore.
.
Hoping for rescue.
.
A shady spot brings me earthy peace. Above, a light breeze, light as forgotten almonds. It does not satisfy my hunger. Not marzipan. No, translucent labdanum. A hint of cistus. Maybe like dried gentian root, (but who knows the scent of dried gentian root?). And a hint of rose. Rose of nowhere. And amber like dust. Thick dust. Balsamic. No smoke and no resin. And no sweet.
.
Everything hangs in the brown. Occupying dust. Heavy-duty powder. Blocked nose. Alp in throat and breathing. Barely delicate rose on the horizon. Mirage.
.
Long, monotonous dying. Oh, could I die for this. No! Yes! - 9.0 - A dying for lovers. .
.
My demise.
.
7.0
**
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BertolucciK
