Stabs at Sonnet #3

A something grovels underneath my bed,
And gropes, afraid, as moth in final flail,
A monster? Nay, for births it no more dread
Than train of ant evokes in cavalcade.

I have my nose in sundry stenches steeped,
And now I'm deep in wonderment interred,
For what the stupefying something reeks,
Is waif of every fragrance I have loved.

A touch of teak; a whiff of saffron blessed,
And parchment, plum, and book by thousands thumbed,

All here one moment, gone the dismal next,
As pimple ripe, to wrinkle raw succumbed;

This curious force, if anything, describes,
My fear to live, and luring urge to write.

~•■•~