Renaissance

I long to see the hyacinth anon
imparting salutations breezily
and breathe the sweet cologne that wafts upon
invigorating gusts that easily
dispel the winter doldrums dragging on,
accumulating drifts inside of me.
I pull my collar up to warm my chin
in lieu of golden kisses on my skin.

As angles change, the chance to see protracts
but only if a pupil seeks the truth,
hallucinations often pose as facts
when altered by the heady state of youth
and even sully patronizing pacts
of those a little longer in the tooth
that hide behind their overweening grin
denial of the emptiness within.

We all require temperate climes to bloom
and solid clay to hold us tenderly
when certain days of unexpected gloom
precipitate their misty misery,
and if tomorrow brings my final doom
I’ll face the end with much felicity
unburdened by my mitigated sin,
as haunting hints of hyacinth begin.