It happened on one blue day
when my petals were bruised,
and my spirit almost hung itself,
no longer bearing the weight of being an immortal light source
in a time of forgotten prayers.
I was nearly weeping—
not in storms that swallow the world around me,
but in the language
of scorpion grasses at dusk—
soft, bowed, barely blooming.
He came like a gentle comet,
not as a man,
but as the guiding Hermes—
a smile, soft as sacred crocuses,
carrying no judgment, emerging from a cold land,
gently touching the unopened bud
of my fragile sorrow,
just to remind me:
someone still sees.
Then came the embrace—
two arms wrapped around
like vines of honeysuckle
entwining the walls of my cold cathedral of solitude
with warmth and grace:
a tulip and hyacinth embroidery.
I did not flee from that sacred place,
not because I forgot Eros,
but because I remembered Persephone,
longing for the sun,
wandering through labyrinths of wonder
even in Hades’ hasty gentleness.
But guilt arrived
on a shocking wave of pain,
measuring the weight of my heart
against a moment I did not ask for—
nor did I deserve it,
yet I allowed it.
Not ashamed for desiring a mortal feeling,
but for that pale flicker of bloom
that rose inside my crimson heart
and dared to face the sun.
Yet even so,
I crossed no sacred boundary,
and kept my faith to Hera’s vows—
my trembling hand bore no corruption,
only the scent of oleander.
Now I return
to the sacred garden I tend with care,
to the altar of my chosen love,
where trust grows like lavender
at the gates of devotion.
He saw me unguarded,
but I see myself whole again—
a celestial being reborn beneath the stars:
not untrue or disloyal,
only open,
only tender,
only alive.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:34 AM UTC
It happened on one blue day
when my petals were bruised,
and my spirit almost hung itself,
no longer bearing the weight of being an immortal light source
in a time of forgotten prayers.
I was nearly weeping—
not in storms that swallow the world around me,
but in the language
of scorpion grasses at dusk—
soft, bowed, barely blooming.
He came like a gentle comet,
not as a man,
but as the guiding Hermes—
a smile, soft as sacred crocuses,
carrying no judgment, emerging from a cold land,
gently touching the unopened bud
of my fragile sorrow,
just to remind me:
someone still sees.
Then came the embrace—
two arms wrapped around
like vines of honeysuckle
entwining the walls of my cold cathedral of solitude
with warmth and grace:
a tulip and hyacinth embroidery.
I did not flee from that sacred place,
not because I forgot Eros,
but because I remembered Persephone,
longing for the sun,
wandering through labyrinths of wonder
even in Hades’ hasty gentleness.
But guilt arrived
on a shocking wave of pain,
measuring the weight of my heart
against a moment I did not ask for—
nor did I deserve it,
yet I allowed it.
Not ashamed for desiring a mortal feeling,
but for that pale flicker of bloom
that rose inside my crimson heart
and dared to face the sun.
Yet even so,
I crossed no sacred boundary,
and kept my faith to Hera’s vows—
my trembling hand bore no corruption,
only the scent of oleander.
Now I return
to the sacred garden I tend with care,
to the altar of my chosen love,
where trust grows like lavender
at the gates of devotion.
He saw me unguarded,
but I see myself whole again—
a celestial being reborn beneath the stars:
not untrue or disloyal,
only open,
only tender,
only alive.