Oh, Hyacinth 
from Amyclae, 
was it a blessing 
or a curse? 

To enthrall the god 
of suns and prose, 
who brought you to your hearse? 

Oh! Hyacinth.
How magnificent you were. 

Tousled coffee coloured hair that sprung up from your head. 
A chin chiseled like marble. 
A creation by DaVinci given blood and bone. 

The sun took its time gilding your skin. 
A perfect blend of autumn twilight and Persephone's soil. 
Fine fingers with rugged layers, fit to hold hands or cradle a baby bird.  

Apollo loved you like no other. 
You were his alter, 
his bread, 
his wine. 


He was showboating that day. 
Launching his golden plate. 
As you sauntered through the honeycomb hills. 

Oh!! But Zephyrus!  
Green 
resentful 
Zephyrus. 
He aimed the wind to maim your head 
and 
like a stone 
you fell. 

To Apollo it seemed like you'd
Never. 
Stop. 
Falling. 

But from the blood 
grew violet flowers. 
And he wept harder 
because they smelled like you. 

Oh, Hyacinth. 
In the spring he is a sun god
wearing a violet 
shadow 
of death.