Becoming

The China clambers down my throat, 

The air is growing heavy with some scent, 

The Middle Country, curiously draped in passive despair, 

Is just beginning to wake from a slumber on my brain. 

Smells of lavender and durian and rancid green tea, 

Dairy left to mould and thicken, 

Of oil, both deep and shallow and riddled by rancid grease, 

The air is growing thick with some scents that spell disease. 

A walk down South Garden Road, Number four, 

I see rats that scamper and pedestrians who never stop, 

I sense, below my feet, rhythms quite untenable. 

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