The roses on your voice turned to chamomile
taking choices of betterment over aims of soft temper.
Ever mindful of the blue and black occlusions
You took it all. You kept it for yourself.
I had hoped you would pick a better venue
sparing the raucous chorus for the vernal spring
when the sky was coated in clouds
hanging on the mountains like mists:
The only meaningful friendships in Eden.
I was doting on the little cracks inside the concrete,
head held hanging in the wind chimes of Winter
The Never Ending Topiary: The trimming
of all the loose ends. All the obligations to another.