Dust
I pine for the death of vintage hours
When they bedazzled days with joy;
And in my mind still bloom and cloy
The lingering dust of fragrant flowers
In blinded bouquets my love devours.
Now slothful days are moribund, hard,
Broken dreams gild the bright facade,
And happiness retreats and quivering cowers
With truth torn and nailed into the floor.
Thus life proceeds a travelogue of grey
Imposing welts of wondering and woe
On all I had embraced and begged for more;
It feels my life has yet to know
Love to wipe the pain and tears away.
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