Teetering

There's a pungent scent
That comes from Time
Which can be captured
In a jar with pickled objects
Like "what" and "why"
Somehow put there
And molded by
A dream carried out
In a space where
Black & White
Are not separate beings
And yet is
Thrown together
In a place of
Preservation
To escape some sort
Of end
And be able to
Flip back
To that first aroma
Inhaled deeply
Into that jar
Which we call
the mind.