Hyacinth garden

to you,

once I seemed to be a great gift,

that was your quasi love

before our rift


time moves on memories ridicule and berate

now I am no more than wrapping paper in the crates

a misfit, a bohemian aesthete, a wandering ghost

nevertheless, as a poem, I oblige more than ideas

like virtue, trust, devotion, and sated peacefulness that fills with bliss

as I enter the eternal exodus of essence

all this you will miss

along with my sweet tender, kiss

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