Violet
Roses cascade,
Bearing the weight of the alphabet,
With tales echoed,
Of sins yet to come,
Of burdens to bear.
They carry their shimmer,
And this letter returns,
Playing a gentle melody,
Unveiling a window,
To sing,
At the wound’s inception,
To seal the wound,
A bleeding of violet hue.
I was not Layla,
Yet within my heart, delight resides,
O my friend,
And seven suns,
Rest upon my shoulder.
Now, I become Layla,
In the chill of the heart,
In the distance’s embrace,
And strangeness, its saddle?
O refined salt!
Like mountains mirrored in my eyes,
And you, O hope,
Be a soothing balm,
For God’s sake,
What purpose of the hidden archived wishes?
