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Astral Jan 4
My wings are gone.
Gone from my body,
Gone from me,
My wings are gone.
Like Icarus hath learned,
My wings are gone.

And I can't fall very much longer.
A quick thought I had during school that I decided to write down.
Fixed on repeat with stagnation as aural salvation
they dance to the archaic discord
entombed in relics from 1973
rooted in pensivity behind the repetition of each melody
they've heard this one before
used it to pick themselves up from the floor
an effigy to lost lovers
who used to sit beside them
smoking on the balcony
paying duty to a capitalist society
taxing themselves with each breath.

They never hear the strings breaking in silence
dancing through progressions
which paint plaintive signs of the times
disparity haunts the rhymes
but nostalgia stole the show
apathy drives ignorance
to the songs, they don't know.

Artists gorge on the decline
too many pills to swallow
so instead, they'll do another line.
Inspired by a conversation about Napster.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
'Oh, when will you return, my love?' wondered Kourê,
   as she lays on the daybed, in the cradle of                        
          Spring's clime; how the nights and days make                        
her so weary, as the yellowed flames sway idle              
So many flowers sent,                                            
each rich with memory.      
Violets coiling around the triumphal arch;              
His smile after their first kiss under
the flushing dawn.
Starlings who sing ever so sweet;                              
the song of him preaching of her being
                       a bright glory before others.
Crystal chandeliar that hangs from the ceiling;
                            Her on a small bench, his hands massaging
                              warm oils between her fae-sculpted
      feet and toes.
The roses; a rouge kiss in the light of the shade
          The harp; a white daybed draped
                            with a scarlet sheet.
She yearns for a hug from him, bathing ****
          in light, as their hearts beat in sync
                              and reach the sky.
All she wants is a sweet rest, his hand on her
fine head;                                                
            stroking, sighing, eyes shining,              
                  water that trembles between fingers,
happiness linger!
A feather drifts earnest, the glittering of stars,
And now she cools, recalling their sweet        
goodbye as he rides his mare,
            snow cloak shines eternally.
'Yours is a beauty that will never wilt,' he cooes,
placing a rose in her hair.                  
A rose.                      
A rose...        
Her eyes falls on the white rose in the vase,
              lonesome, thornless proud...                  
We marvel its beauty, its earthbound performance                       
 She holds the rose in her hand, staring at its                    
its crowning glory; petalled virtue
By her ivory velveteen fingers                                          
long finger,
               slim thumb-
She plucks petal by petal by petal by petal
as she looks to the day-sky
                      with a dreaming mind
And when the crown is gone,                            
                       her face is touched by a frown                        
                and the naked stem,
                                    marred by her sensitivity-
                                            ***** of its own beauty-
                                                    for her hand's sake,
her yearning for her lionesque lover,              
                                         and aurorian prayers?          
The stem falls, naked and bald on the ground
    as she closes her eyes, saddened...
She cannot bear the sight of snow-kissed            
flowered bays without the sun,
                   her hymn-
                                  her shield-
Know the true secret behind the red, red rose  
As none know of its venomous mantle    
this Rose lingered in the vase only to be
defiled.
Taken advantage of only to
                            be dumped-
A laughing stock as another more beautiful
                            flower will take its place
Boiling with vengeance, the stem is hale,
jade with envy-
                                               barbed with thorns, a poisoned desire
                      to shield its body,
Its pride, its crown stolen-
                                     From snow to blood-
                                                    its pain turned crimson,
No longer will tears of dew fall!
'It matters not,' Kourê thinks, 'another rose will bud.'
For they, like many perennials and sentient life,
                          are conscious of its limited beauty!
'Mine own beauty and his will last forever.'
From the light beyond,
she sees him.
                                       Her sun that rides the mare!
She runs into his embrace- a pair of happy doves
Her fingers in his gold curls
as he bends the knee,
The air lovingly cold at this display!                  
Ever so content!
                                          Blessings upon the lily in the snow!
Upon her hands, the blood of a rose,
that swears vengeance upon her
for it will be the catalyst!
Blood for blood!
                                  The rose will rise and curse
them with pain ten-fold...
Final part of the free-verse!
Hope you enjoyed it!
I came up with a little sad myth behind why the rose has thorns. Why the white roses are truly red. What did you think? I have roses in my garden but I don't pick the petals, they're too pretty!
What did you think of Kourê? Do let me know!
Love you guys! Thanks so much!
Lyn ***'
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
The zephyrs run rampant from the heavy  
clouds, one that the balcony Beauty fully  
    embraces.                                            ­    
                      Clad in her yearning garments, a dress of                        
    snow silk-satin with a thigh- high slit and      
a frilled silk-hem.                                            
           ­                Whose arms are raised towards
Winter's melody-    
The zephyr's caress ever so gentle,              
     her dress flutters like a dove's wing in delight,
stroking her slim feet,                                      
her flushing heels-                  
It makes briefly escaping being enwombed
   by the shades of her room; the anti-chamber
                   of her heart's greatest desire,                                            
  where many tears are shed.
                                         a maid born of the mild moon-                      
                                                                ­                    Kourê.      
The Sun at its zenith pales in comparison to
her beauty.                                              
Her face, sonnet sweet-      
        Her voice, heaven's hymn-        
Her lashes, argent's flutter-
Her eyes, cerulean haunts-
                   Her body, fragrant; a slender willow-
                       Her hair, silver-aurorian blaze, held up
by a star-studded parrot's clip.            
Snow bejewels her divine lids, down to those
rosette buds that make her lips.                      
                  Despite it all, melancholy has a grip her
features-
      She is one who pays little to earthly riches,            
for it provides comfort in slivers          
Thoughts of flowers rest far from the altars
of her mind, for her mind is clouded by
             the thoughts of him-
He who she hopes to see and hold once more.
As he gave her word that he would return      
from his journey, leaving her in the palace;      
             his hand pulling the black gates.
153 followers?! THANK YOU!!!!
*Sending hugs all around!*
Part two of my free-verse poem, one more to go!
Hope you like it
Criticism is welcome!
Lyn ***
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
There she awaits-                                            
    In her jewelled palace far from faded-eyes    
A lily sheltered from the blanket of white;
the air perfume-light from the blossoms,  
                      and a yearning heart -

          Lo!                                                  ­                    
            The silver songs of Robins; the heralds of Winters
              twirl free.                                                            ­            
   Lo!                                                              ­
      A Hyperborean wind is roused from slumber
    and spreads its wings. Leaves drift down are
    kissed by frost; lakes, the woodlands placed
  under your trance. And your vision came to
be - a polished world on a fair day.            
                                         And at a pleasant hour-
150 followers! ***! THANK YOU SO MUCH!
I love this community so much! To thank you, I've started
a new free-verse poem, and here's the beginning!
Something that'll (hopefully) be as elegant as my Jasmine Pearls, but with a touch of darkness. Part 2 will come out tomorrow, so keep an eye out!
This is what I've got so far, from the top of my head.
I hope one day I can write an epic like Homer's Odyssey!
Thanks so much!
My Kingdom continues to grow!
Much love,
Lyn ***
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
Let thine voice be a sweet
tremble upon mine ear
Don't you just love the archaic language?
Got a few more on the way!
Lyn ***
^-^
Paint in acid
scream into static
through perceptions pallid
with desires archaic and elastic.
It doesn’t really matter
who lies at the other end of the ampersand
smoke and mirror shatter
grinding from glass into sand
yet here we stand
malleable and plastic
underhand
and egocentric
hallowed by introspection.
Our shadows long lost in the tide
with the whispers of deviation
I guess, I shouldn’t have lied
but you were my only means of abstraction.
Now,
we’re just timelessly out of fashion
now,
we’re recoiling from the passion
that was once instilled
visceral
riled
so sweetly sacramental.
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