Early in the hour I grew a flower
Delicate, silken, and sweetly perfumed
The water it tasted was foreign and wasted
And so wilted despite what I assumed
An absent mind with petals aligned,
I have reaped the seeds I’ve sown
While now I stand on a house of sand,
In place of love, distrust has grown
With poisonous lust returned to dust
Barren of beauty I wander
I took for granted that previously planted
Though I often paused to ponder
My roots entangled the bloom I had strangled
Amidst the void of our garden
Existence, bereft, has all but left
To fetch for me some pardon
The winds of change shall rearrange
What I once knew of love
I did not share that tender care
That guides the wings of doves
Might I amend the affliction I send
And plant again my blossom’s start
With hope I nourish for love to flourish
For losing is a lonely art
Aye, I fashion the garden of passion
Dwelling in the heart
Losing, indeed, is a lonely art


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