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“Why did you do this for me?” He asked. “I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.” “You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing.”
- E.B. White Charlotte's Web

Blooming violet, ghost
Of the blonde sun.
Beauty of contrast.
The sun shines brighter
But not perceived by many,
The violet no longer hides
And eclipses the star with
Its heart shaped petals

Mythic essence, desired
By queens... emperors.
Her hidden power.
The might of Greece
Kneels down to her grace.
The flower of spring Persephone
Has chosen. Athens symbol.
Flower to fool Apollo

Withheld greatness, how
modest she is to all.
The gift of Humility.
The faithful flower painted
Timidly by the Bible’s artists,
Is occasionally too reticent
To glance at her kind spirit
And behold my rescue

Healing Heartsease, blossoming
Even before melting snow.
The soul savior.
Violet’s tender touch of protection
Softly soothing my skin.
The salve of my machine.
Her words, the river dam.
But ephemeral is the scent.  

Friendship essence, sweet
Magic wholly consuming me.
Tolkien of love.
How elegantly and delicately her
Colors dance and sing with the wind,
To engender the Victorian praxis
Binding us both with thoughts
Occupied by timeless bliss.

Elegant royal, spiritual
Guide of my fortune and good judgment.
Muse of twilight.
For she finds me in cold calamity
And warms my hand through the abyss.
Stargazing, I dream of hope, clarity and
To be born anew. She left her nectar.
Early morning emerges in delight.
In the last poem of the second chapter, a new character is introduced. Violet is that friend that feels like she knows you deeply, even if you know each other only for months. But for a person who has lost and now feels invisible, how much of that new friendship is purely affectionate and not romantic?
In a field of red roses by the lake,
A white rose calls up to the sun
With her beautiful petal scarf
And her cheerful smile
Over another field, a tulip stands sad
He is one in the crowd, no one special
“Smart,” some say, “too shy” others may
But he struggles, moving his cheek

The tulip looks at the ethereal rose every day
Wondering how such a flower grew from the floor
An angel’s tears of joy, he might think
A kiss from Gaia, he would have hoped

Tulip doesn’t know much of the rose
And fears never being able to embrace her
He feels that both have too much in common
But his inner parasites would hurt her
For a majestic rose that dances with the moon in the water
Such normal tulip will never have a chance
Her perfect stem is made of silk
His is damaged and made of paper

Still, the tulip dreams
Wishing one day to fly, as his roots would rip
Detaching from the floor, from his forlorn life
Flying towards the star reflected in the lake, where his solitude would end

The white rose doesn’t realize, still
How much he admires her strength, cleverness, and beauty
Until the tulip sends his seeds of love
In the form of this poem and painting

For a more radiant future he fights
Forever aligned with the Astraea of his heart
Because she glows in the night
Inspiring him to be better
And even if the rose doesn’t recognize the tulip
She should know that he is right there
In an everyday battle to talk to her
He is smart and shy, but eager to give all his petals to see her smiling for him
The motif of flowers is key to the second chapter. We know Rose already, so Tulip is the next character the anthology introduces.
A mellow nose
Gorgeous as the moon
Mirrored in the lagoon

Your skin is tender
Your uniqueness is beauty
Of previously not seeing your splendor
Your smile makes me guilty

Love is your center
Kindness, your vitality
Light in the dark, a magic mender
Goddess of purity

White rose
A perfume dose
Peaceful as the moon
Mirrored in the lagoon

Your scent is the trip
And Paradise is my fate
If constantly smelling your friendship
Becomes an open gate

I will be your grip
For when you are desperate
Just accept the bee that wants your lips
To pollinate your fate

White rose
Striking a Pose
Shiny as the moon
Mirrored in the lagoon
This is the first poem of the second chapter, and it is supposed to show my new found love for this new person I met that made me feel amazing after a moment of despair. I gave her this poem adorned with real white roses to show my appreciation for her on her birthday.  Coincidently the page and chapter that "White Rose" falls in my anthology is the date of her birthday, February 22nd.
Dear Venus of my Heart,

The Solstice of blue, once flourishing with fiery flowers red, the petals of our garden froze. The chimney of our cabin of dreams, ambitious as Alexander's attainments, pops with the fog of the remnants of heat. We used to defy the now frozen roaring raging river of time and drink from the abstract notion of forever. For me, it felt like years embracing the elation of our entangled hearts, despite the days that went by. But reality is a grey mirror, and, in a hoard of wretched ways, I wronged you. Our Ecstasy, even extremely enlivening, was fleeting in behalf of my secret despair.

Imagine I a long-lasting love, a motto that guards me of any break. An unpierceable vowel, a couple for life, to live like lions loyal, bold and courageous yet entwined. So, to pour my emotions akin to the biblical flood and undergo an Ophelia, or even a Mimì, to subversion it distresses me. The motivations of mine may map me as an adamant, but I am a romantic, a believer of one true love. I just worry my machine shall yield to the snap of the edge and the ever yearly youthful yearning of restless consummation repels me. While passion is the feeling of the flesh, love is the feeling of the soul; one mate shall be fate. And my soul longs for you in spite of the lonely length that loosens our bonds.

Thus, out of my outrageous offense, I repent. I lament my vanity, this vividly voracious scruple of kissing way before and tragically after the priest's last words without a care for the bride. I apologize for this erroneous early enamor and the ceaseless insistence to the raw departure, leaving echoes of you in pictures of us. But now alas is time for my final parting, to let go because move on I shall. Heart breaks for heart's sake.

Forever and always,
H

PS: The fog shrouded our cabin of dreams. I feared going back to our place. But doubt no longer clouds my view, so I cleared the mist. Still, the chimney's black stains cannot be cleaned. Hope for this house rests on its grave. However, a new home is just around the corner. It is up to you to build it with me. I will be waiting.
This poem is a love letter to the person the previous two pieces were written for. It establishes that I finally found a way to move on and ends the first chapter of the anthology. From all the poems in it, this was actually the last one I wrote. Luckily, I actually got to reconnect with the recipient, yet I have not shared my poems with her.
Absence is to love as wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small and kindles the great
— Roger de Bussy-Rabutin, Memoir of Roger de Rabutin


Four thousand meters above the sea, I breathe without air
I feel the same when beside me you are no more
The black, the void chokes me in the moment’s despair
And The Scarlet Fear runs inside me with a thunderous roar

My aching marooned heart bleeds from behind
Of the darkened soul that consumes me at each stride
But love is the golden aether of my troubled mind
An oxygen supply brought to this confusion tide

Without your presence, they were icy nights
Though knowing your fire ignited with my fuel
Is a mild treat, a promise of a beautiful sight

Kindless trouble, is it all in my imagination?
And is the love I feel a mere foolish incantation?

I will never know until she answers my soundless voice
This poem follows a modification of a sonnet structure and follows the story of the previous poem, showing a layer of dissonant emotions engulfing the speaker.
I hid my heart from you for too long
And you forgave me for my blunder
Our passion roared like thunder
A storm that whistled like a song

Day by day my thought went to you
Your scent, your smile, your heat within
A gaze of brightness in dark blue
The memories tattooed in our skin

But nights went by,
time moved like light
with your obsidian eyes
no more in my sight
And the last page of this
fleeting chapter
Was marked by the absence
of your laughter

Why did I leave?
Where did I go?
How did I leave the precious part
of my own soul?

Why did I leave?
Where did I go?
How could I leave this precious part
of my own soul, of my own soul?

Your kindness was petrified
My parting has hurt you within
Your touch is now cold in my skin
Nevermore your eyes will have me seen
Nevermore your embrace will mean something

So, after years misleading you
Time has come to punish my own
I'm countless nights just all alone
Why shall your absence still wound my mind
How can the heart betray his love, his kind

And nights go by,
time moves like light
with your obsidian eyes
no more in my sight
And the last page of this
fleeting chapter
Is marked by the absence
of your laughter

Why did I leave?
Where did I go?
How did I leave the precious part
of my own soul?

Why did I leave?
Where did I go?
How could I leave this precious part
of my own soul, of my own soul?

Hearts of gold never corrode
My love for you was always bold
But never is in the fullish souls
That believe the flames are to control
The poison that turns love cold
Prevents luster to unfold
And our present is no longer told
That's the price of absence and it was sold

So, why did I leave?
Where did I go?
How did I leave the precious part
of my own soul?

Why did I leave?
Where did I go?
How could I leave the most precious part
of my own soul, of my own soul?
This poem is written like a song, and it was my first try connecting these two different genres of art that many times intersect without us knowing.
There is no such thing as to be ready or not ready for love. If you are afraid of commitment it is because you haven’t yet kissed the lips of true blessing; the spark that will burn with light and passion has not been yet cast. No fear can be victorious in battle against love. No rational thought can eradicate the heart’s desire. The body’s court of justice will be biased towards tender affection and any judgement will rule in favor of it. When genuine love is put into a scale, even the smallest bit of it will make its side heavier. Like energy, passion and attachment cannot be destroyed and like a Star, it may take a lot of time for love’s warmth to fade into an icy corpse of absence. But who can say the end will not be blistering cold?
This is the epigraph of my poetry anthology called "The Heart's Betrayal". It is not a poem per se, but I love how it sounds and it also sets up the themes behind the collection.

— The End —