When every hour is midnight

And it doesn't smell like perfume to me...
It smells like burning plastic
crude in the sea.
I smell the noise!

Large fires and will-o'-the-wisps.
It smells like incense too…
but that doesn't count,
I was the one who lit it!

The flowers waste
their freshness!
Some for rancidity
Others being vicious!
Flowers and weeds intersect.
Hybrids, half moon and midnight,
They exude studied and Parisian aromas.

They exude sweat of fear.
Disguises of rain and dew.
The flowers clash, made up,
of autumn leaves…
From the revealing sun…
and even more of the silver-mystery of the night.