SYNAESTHESIA
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Four pinkly-curling hyacinths caress

A wicker basket on the windowsill

Above the kitchen-sink not harsh.


At night their perfume freely wafts, all full

Of silken harmonies which balm my eyes,

A fragrant chanson, mute as a petal.


The melancholy music does pervade

My limbs with subtle weight, giddying through

Its unheard melody, a rich roulade


Whose plush, descending notes taste purple now,

A luxury so sweet within my head--

Where gold and syllables are tasted too.

~ Stanley ~

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