Mulled wine

At first, when I met him,
His presence would reek of mulled wine
But he was sober,
As sober and critical,
As down-to-earth as possible.

Then he would smell of
Lime - as dry and toxic as possible,
As uninviting, uncooperative and brusque
As possible.
What if he was working on repairing his faith in people on that day?

Then I finally started feeling
A breath of iodium
On a seashore,
And this is how we perceive our freedom -

A vast engine of the sky
Falling into the endless depth of the sea.

His poems
Turned into labyrinths
Although they started out as confessions.

I sense too much,
How can I build a proper hypothesis
On shaky ground of my limited and imperfect experience?

'A scientist should not be too empirical' -
A monograph says.

I sip berry juice
And may look a bit absent-minded
When I keep asking myself
How will all of us be remembered.

© Maryna Tchianova