Albeit not the kind of violet That made your nostrils drip With a watery ambrosia Sugary enough to belong to a bee
And not the kind of heavy, royal, omnipresent contentment plum presents as a molten lava perfecting the pockmarks in the pie
My tendrils were not reminiscent of home or anything savoury so
I tangled them in tiaras belonging to some Duchess' daughter or one of Henry's wives or
Maybe twined them round Frita's pallet and Dyed my scalp a more pleasing hue or Anything other than purple
Because purple was what I was not Purple was Lilacs and Pansies and Heliotropes and Tulips and Lavender and
That little wild flower aforementioned
whose name I can't bare say for the sake of a humble beauty such as hers
'twould be a shame to make comparable To the wet-dog-fur look Of my purple hair
And so I learned to get lost
In a past I always felt my own Traveling continents and Floating through eons
While my classmates coloured in British Columbia and Where is Nunavut again?
Growing, I gained companions
A faery, Athena, Aslan and Frodo, Einstein, Plato, Theodore Geisel, Mahatma Ghandi and Louis Leakey, Jamal Dewar, Joan of Arc and John Lennon and it all became more complicated
Because my world was in flux Oh it ebbed and it flowed and it expanded Like the molten plum but this time It really was more like lava
Assuredly you'll understand; See the seams in our stitching! Our Worlds are sewn together!
And as much as we would like to cling to our individualism
at some point we all must accept that there is but one
Intrinsic as our innards Are our atoms and Electrons and mine are yours and yours are hers and ours together are all of the stars and it really is beautiful
At some point the twisting shroud The squeezing and contracting - of the world inside my head and the world inside my eyes and the world I was walking around in and the world that I saw above me - it tensed then halted and became very dense then melted
What a glorious Ubiquitous, secure and everlasting amalgamation! I opened my eyes To find Van Goghs Scissors All bloodied still and so I cleaved my purple hair
But to find Hieronymus' oils and watercolours so I made my skin a hellish canvas Painted all in yellows and blues Without a hint of purple
Now from shoulders to forearm to wrist from breast to navel to hip from thigh to calf to foot legible as anything are lines that lilt and gleam sighing songs of devils and cherubs alike and of sparrows and snakes
So after heaven is hell and after hell is Nirvana And Manna is as good as dirt if Ambrosia is but the spit of a bee
It all always works out Because at the end comes Death and after that We don't know But I do know that I don't know Much at all to begin with
Except for four things, almost assuredly: 1. Energy is all 2. I will never cease to find shouting at people from my bedroom or a car window amusing 3. My mother loves me more than anyone 4. Nothing is certain, except for uncertainty
I feel relieved of some burden wowza! Time to clean my room. Have a good day dearest readers and content skimmers.