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?
