The fountain of emotion slows
now a torrent, not a hurricane.
It’s shouldering expectation
burdened by absent hope.
It too, thought,
from a pale mucky marsh
it’d become resplendent—
jets of love and care
shooting off towards the stars
blowing the Trevi out of the water.
Alas, mucky marsh it remains
gloopy staleness dripping
obscured by the past
clouded by the future.
Yet a glimmer of hope remains:
a single water-lily
among the soggy weeds.
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