Daily Archives: August 9, 2011

The Azure Rose


The sky gave way to philanthropy
And slid sorrow into the earth.
From azure tears bloomed roses
And from there, a heart gave birth.
To shallow scores of eternity
That seemed to fall in spades;
Became, of new, a solemn thought
For a newborn love’s true fate.

From sorrow-wept tears of mercy,
From bound vines that caught on wrists.
Into an ocean where many have drowned
Let loose my only wish.
To be torn to pieces and caught in the breeze
As tatters of what was once.
To be thrown into the sky and clouds
And bound once again as one.

And released to earth, to azure rose
To nurture, love, and believe.
The sorrow that was once so close
Had all but just left me.
And the azure rose stood in it’s place,
Beautiful, strong, and grown.
Perfect in it’s every way
And protected by its thorns.

The lions of loss and loveless optimism
Caught long in their tracks,
Scratched and torn by roses thorns
And retreated back.
And all else that would disturb the bloom,
All else that might defy
Speared, and rendered less than a threat,
Until left then to die.

And azure rose still standing strong,
No more ghost than you or I,
Stood proud as the lion foe it had fought
With a gratitude to the azure sky.

This is all about love lost and love found. And the idea of love itself. The rose represents true love, both beautiful, powerful, and painful if treated lightly. The blue in the rose represents the rarity of true love, and the sometimes believed misconception that it doesn’t exist at all. (On a side not, I do believe in the blue rose, and WILL someday find one. Also believe in true love but if you’ve read any of my poetry in the past, you already know that.)

The beginning is all about first love, and the dangers of getting too deep in. And the end represents new love, true love. Afterall, true love is better than first love.



Among all the pretty faces,
peach-pink cheeks and smokey eyes.
Long, long lashes, and pen-drawn lips,
and gowns the color of the skies;
in hues of orange, yellow, red, and grey,
white, and black, and cerulean,
and all others of the stars, sun, and moon,
and every other that there has been.

Among all the pretty faces,
in a crowd packed tight of panderers,
I have never felt so perfectly alone;
not that it ever mattered.

Among the multitude of swollen sorrow,
wreathed with lies built of smoke and deceit,
along walkways, long worn by travel and run;
no one should notice me.
In a crowd of thousands of people
each with a different world,
no one should look down upon an invalid,
who poses as a girl.

Among the multitude of swollen sorrow,
each a purpose greater than mine,
each a stranger in very right
with no strings left to intertwine.

Among the throngs of faux brown fur and thread,
with eyes as black as night,
looking on with constant ambivalence
to the once deploring fight.
Watching without feeling,
hoping without care.
Inanimate stuffed animals
who don’t know that I am there.

Among the throngs of faux brown fur and thread
and memories of what is gone.
Here in my room, thinking of you,
I’ve never felt more alone.

I hate loneliness. I really do. I suppose we all do, but I honestly have it as a huge phobia. Strangely enough, I don’t mind being on my own. There is a difference between being “alone” and being “on your own.” I feel the most lonely when I’m in a crowd of people. When there are hundreds around me, but none that I can call my friends. When I’m just on my own in the house, or whatever the case may be, I can walk around singing at the top of my lungs and doing pretty much whatever I want.

But in public, you are supposed to pretend. In public, one must be mature, and act responsibly. Or rather, I am forced to pretend. Perhaps there are those out there who enjoy being mature and lady-like. I just don’t happen to be one of them.