Violet Chapter Five

The myths and mysteries of Violet

what astonishes my ghost is not the sublime light

gleaming in the darkest of nights

but rather the memory of every beautiful song he sung

walking on the golden beaches

such thoughts warmed my heart

he saw the end was near and lost me in the thickened jungles of his mind

but an immortal dream arouse, impassioned by the solidity of my faith

his silent prayers warned me and I heard his thoughts to mine approaching

his soul with mine united

only to be chained up to his wavering madness

hold a mirror and gaze with unrest

his reflection, my face

I became the one I most distaste;

the problem with the value of love

comes when a suspicious opportunity is placed

upon cowardly hearts and hungry spirits

there can be no divine justice

a force that can not be held and nurtured

in direct succession with self interest and deception

my task was the most difficult of them all;

in the violets I saw a love that would devour me

I denied it not

it supplied the best formula for my madness

but I lost my patience, full of questions;

incorporating stoicism into exalted delusions can reverse any number of realities

your fragile heart will not withstand the self tyranny

creating principles out of the abysmal mind can be a dangerous practice

look at how your will bends with bruising arrogance

she enters into her blossoming age

her heart unravelled and hung

concealed inside a chest full of mystery

pertains some natural goodness

from the most profound experiences

the weight of sorrow drained my eyes out of their mortal dream

soon I misunderstood my refinement

and sought out to create a garment out of my torment

there, a mask was gradually growing

the most favourable face no longer endurable;

oh violet dim your kindled flame

must you burn so hot till you turn blue

smouldering the night away

your eyes he wept

those eyes are now submerged in raging oceans of unrest

you wanted to live according to your truth

but here you are

involuntary discharging, characterized by the contrasting mess

of your own constituted untruths

every intention grows tyrannical, indifferent beyond measure;

the chameleon queen

a gemini child

once a twin

tell us dear how many faces do you bear

under those golden locks?

still as a lake on those amber afternoons

quiet as snow fall on a winter night

a river flowing in the day

neither denies or accepts

just keeps on going like the wind

men have tried to name her and have failed

all who came cede and revel at the sight

dishevelled or shrewd she may stand

the pale marble, laden queen

enamelled in intermittent prudence

my pride begs for the ideal

broke out of my once fruitful gardens to any barren land, bearing preference to the ways of nature, no mercy or justice, her power lies in her indifference

autumn is a time of transformation;

the leaves fell that day in their shimmering gold and crimson

autumn was upon them

but little did they know she was already past them

remain touched by it

by her tender loveliness

and hold that memory dear

in processing the mysterious taste of courage

from which arouse every bizarre truth

a door opens in a dangerous fashion

well she has turned into a modern recluse, walking amongst the others;

for ninety days and ninety nights

she waited weaving her love

counted the silk threads, one by one

and sang whatever song came to heart

for ninety days and ninety nights

she boiled and simmered

burning in her inviolate heart

the wind makes an appearance

she heaps the logs on the fire

oh my friend I have grown to be worn out and blue

the glimmering hazels that once so shined for me

haunt me in my dream as I plummet into slumber

and I’ve cried and cried

but no use came of it

can a wounded heart prevail over hate with time’s tormenting clock’s all ticking away?

tell us violet

you child divine

where does your strength come from

when the pain grows unbearable and in the dead of night

a little strength soaring in the frailest of flowers

refutes its own death by wilting, again and again until it sprouted

we bled so much until we blossomed;

full of weeping sorrows

one still hopes to understand

the lone desert rose

thereon we strode in our solace

along the greying sands of time

the fickle star of hope hangs high

we revel at the sight of rain after a drought

a mere visage of one’s face

brings about such immensities

the everlasting flame may still be there

untouched by the hands of time

are you inventing the suprasensible truth or finding it?

when we leave the soul acquires the sensation of leaving forever

thus the memory, a unit in unity of some retrospective reality

such are the conclusions of every man who grew legs and arms on his consternated fear, fearing even himself, precisely striving for some mild falsification of every reality

why do you want the truth at all?

you know only to reiterate the conditions for your solitude

under the most favourable conditions

only those who knew how to fully experience the pain, in the end overcame their most catastrophic interpretations;

no one is strong enough to refute it

do you really believe you are free from the seduction of words?

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