{"id":319,"date":"2010-08-04T03:30:48","date_gmt":"2010-08-04T08:30:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.martysparadox.com\/index.php"},"modified":"2014-03-24T01:23:11","modified_gmt":"2014-03-24T08:23:11","slug":"a-scent","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.martysparadox.com\/index.php\/writing\/writing-1996\/a-scent","title":{"rendered":"A Scent"},"content":{"rendered":"<h5><em>By Martin Falatic<br \/>\nWritten 1996-02-08<br \/>\nRevised 1996-02-08, 2010-08-04<\/em><\/h5>\n<div class=\"hr\">\n<hr \/>\n<\/div>\n<pre>To walk in the cold, dark green and olive-hued woods\r\nTo walk in the cold, misty air,\r\nTo breathe the cold.\r\nThe sun lost, only clouds remain,\r\nBut her scent drives him on.\r\n\r\nSo many smells,\r\n        The musty wood\r\n        The decay of flowers\r\n        The pregnant humus\r\n                From which one may have no doubt that spring will flower.\r\nOnly hers stands out.\r\n\r\nShe is like the woods: dark, foreboding\r\nA study in quiet contemplation.\r\nHer hair is the dark red sunlight as the sun sets in the western sky.\r\nLit with a fire, she stands out at once fragile and timeless.\r\nShe waits for the moon to rise, to pale in the unholy light.\r\nShe waits, never asking why she is alone, never knowing anything\r\n        but the slow progress of the seasons.\r\n\r\nHe seeks her as one might a treasure, coaxed on\r\n        by an indefinable scent of the unattained.\r\nA scent I speak of, as alien as the smell of forged metal\r\n        in dark days gone by.\r\nA scent otherworldly, rooted in the past,\r\n        queerly at once the melding of that and the future.\r\nA scent of flowers pulled and pruned,\r\nThe essence of the forest and the meadow captured in her skin,\r\nTo become something altogether unique, signatory.\r\n\r\nThe winds change, he loses the scent.\r\nLost, he falls to his knees, broken, at the whim of the wind, the rain.\r\n\r\nShe sees this, in her mind's eye...\r\nShe waits, for she knows they will be one.<\/pre>\n<div class=\"hr\">\n<hr \/>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>By Martin Falatic Written 1996-02-08 Revised 1996-02-08, 2010-08-04 To walk in the cold, dark green and olive-hued woods To walk in the cold, misty air, To breathe the cold. The sun lost, only clouds remain, But her scent drives him on. So many smells, The musty wood The decay of flowers The pregnant humus From [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":282,"menu_order":1,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"class_list":["post-319","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.martysparadox.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/319","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.martysparadox.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.martysparadox.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.martysparadox.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.martysparadox.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=319"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.martysparadox.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/319\/revisions"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.martysparadox.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/282"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.martysparadox.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=319"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}