From my madness blooms petals of blue and gold, green and purple, scarlet and indigo, crimson and yellow, roses and rain-lilies, salvia and sunflowers, carnations and chrysanthemums, lilies and lilacs, daisies and dahlias, poppies and peonies, hyacinths and hydrangea, wisteria and wolfsbane, marigolds and morning-glories, all flowers under the sun, all blurry blots of ink blooming on a white page, stainless and blameless, an empty field, fertile and free.
The manic muse of the moment plays its symphony over the inky flowers that dance upon my page in watery reflections of allures and illusions, all alluding to some primordial time and space filled with color and passion, long lost to our mundane existence. And yet, at the edges of perception, their faint whispers and temptations tingle the backs of our ears, tickle the hairs at the napes of our necks, tease the tastebuds at the tips of our tongues. And in those brief, sweet flashes, we almost remember what it was like to be alive in that moment, with such beauty, believing that colors never fade, roses never wither, and things like love can last forever.
Comments