Giving Up the Ghost

I promised fidelity, briefly
wearing nothing at all. In my garden,
there are thorns that prick the soul.

How true are flowers? False
as rivers straighten then coil;
nature being the perfect whore. Lovely
for a season, then, winter-dead.

You've known of treachery before:
your earnest prayers unanswered
or the body fails before it wants to.

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