Approximation roses

more "painters poetry"

Approximation of proclamation coordinates behold. A rose of purest white, a rose of red, a rose of gold. And sway with the tides that rush in and out. Ruby red waves glisten in the palest moonlight; beams of life that glitter with hope and echo with joy effervescent illumination of a courageous demise. Quivering beneath wave upon weary wave, grinding down the strong rocks, the confident rocks, the caring, sheltering protecting rocks, and they crumble to the red waves, that now look like molten defeat, a red hot avalanche of lave. The finned creatures thrash and spasm, as predator become prey and red blood stains the white rose, on this day. And then the chill wind blows and an eagle’s note is carried.
Voice high and shrieking and screaming and piercing your mind, leading for the armies and decimals of undead through your conscious the betrayed souls that drift on the breezes of your mind and waft through your memories haunting eyes in eyeless sockets stare grudgingly at you. They can take you with them and bring you far away from this world into a realm where your fears are realized and your phobias are all around, one which you cannot escape the harpies singing their haunting melodies luring you ever closer to a death that cannot come soon enough, and the shadowed claws that grasp and grab at your organs. They savor the beat of your blood, the pulse of your life. They want to absorb it, to extinguish it within them. Do you fancy, maybe those cold eyes, those deep dark decrepit pits in the face of each fear can see straight to your soul. Can reflect the fear, the stench of cowardice, the pungent rotting expulsion of your trembling inner being, shrinking from the world at large. Run then.  Run until your feet grind down to bloodied nubs, and continue until you collapse.  When find yourself at the edge of a cliff with the abysmal bottom of malice and intent, filled with jagged betrayal waiting to pierce you through with their grinding regret, the doom you feel is near, and the red rose drains of its color, the petals turn to an ashen white, veins visible, petals translucent to the theoretical filtering sun, even though you know there is no light left.  No light left to shine on the glinting gold of what could have been. Idealistic memoirs and glory of a begotten life, of a forgotten dream. Dream dream, through clouds and sky. Dream of what dream could have been, when instead the nightmares came, when instead, the atrocities screamed, when instead, the tyrants ruled and vanquished, for they always win. They win and that’s all there is. The candid memoirs of a better time, of kings and steeds and nobility justly so. Ruling through kindness as if it ever existed. As if the kingdoms of childhood have any place in this world. This world of monsters and ghosts. You know they’re real. The horrors, the ghouls, they are everywhere, they are in every mind, in ever fearful thought in every child’s nightmare and every adults waking day dream, they are inside all of us, and sometimes they win. Sometimes they gain control and we lose. We fall to the ground, golden dream rose in hand. As it oxides and fades and rusts and crumbles, the faux golden paint flaking and littering the cobblestone streets. And what then?

Walk on.

Reviews

[JRB]

nicely put ty

[The old me]

awesome poem.

Another amazing poem. The change in your writing is amazing to me. This one is very downtrodden, sad and defeated. A coming of age piece but not really. Not the 'fight the good fight' I would expect. this is a piece of giving in to the unknown. Recognition that the evil of your childhood dreams still lives in the adult mind only now can be made real. Scary premise and even scarier when realized for the first time. But for all that this is a beautiful poem, full of true heartfelt sentiment and emotion. When reading I get a distinct feeling of longing. Perhaps for things past, a simpler time. A time when we all knew, or at least thought we knew, who we are and what was to come. Bravo.. Don't stop writing!