Hyacinth Poem by Victoria Annette Bailey

A unique hyacinth corrupts the field of red, red roses,
The contrast of your moonlit skin blends where the thorns cut deep,
And the forsaken lilac flower, windswept and jealous,
Stands as the Eiffel Tower, beneath the clouds. Unkempt. Asleep.
Tall and objectified; still unnoticed,
A beautiful silhouette, but amidst beauty itself, the pitiful face of shame,
Resenting the demand; everyone wants roses, and the hyacinth wilts,
Found in solace by the distinctive girl, with no name.