Though they do have that nice spicy scent, akin to incense you’d smell at a Catholic Church, there is defo a hint of dry rot.
Though they do have that nice spicy scent, akin to incense you’d smell at a Catholic Church, there is defo a hint of dry rot.
I don’t mind the sun sometimes, the hieroglyphs it shows,
I can taste you on my lips and smell you in my gauze,
Cinnamon and sugary and softly mummified,
You never know just how to look through all-seeing Horus eyes.
There’s a place for you in the valley of poets