an image of purple chrysanthemums

Hyacinth garden

Imagine my surprise when I realized Aquarius does not illuminate the night.
No beams filtered through to measure that passing rite.
Like some distant lascivious whisper above in ebony skies.
An expert recommends surrender to motionless, disguise.
Unconscious perceptions slide like a magician’s hand.
When you stretch to thin, it is natural to misunderstand.
On the edge of a precipice, see tints of stained-glass effect.
Faint wisps of promises muted by dappled shadows cannot reflect.
Listen to a voice of mosaic goddesses within their sweet union of love.
While this poet tries to find words that utter cries from a mourning dove.
Suspect harbingers that tell you that winter is close.
No more warmth you must say adios to the desert rose.
Without direction soulless horizons of neon, black depart.
Until all that is left, is an image of purple chrysanthemums with broken hearts.

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