Hyacinth
Tittle-tattle from morning to midnight,
Ears of mine feasted on a brewing tea
Served by arctic tongues clear of vicious plight,
A secret it should be kept was their plea.
When the road was a glazing white blanket,
Rumors flew over a withering gem.
An atrophy hanged with a straitjacket
By the neck, frenzy on complete mayhem.
Not often did I see this lady rushed,
Hardly the shadow she wore stalked around
More I doubted that her feet rarely touched
The chilled cemented floor she was last found.
Like vanished spirits, implicitly lost,
The flower yielded to life's deadly cost.
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