I once dreamt of an open field
With the wind solemn and shyly caressing my cheek
I dreamt of a flower, an open bud
The most violent of hues adorned it's perfection
But even then, I hesitated
Because the pretty vase of dry flowers next to it
Was far prettier
Not because it was pretty
But because it spoke to my heart
It whispered to me
Talked
about the pain of being longing grey
About the dry breeze that was so beautiful
So needed
The beads of moisture
That loved the one of violent hues
Cherishing what the mirror would see
But caused the lovely little greys to do no more
than rot
Rot, to the black tar
The black tar that enchanted the greys
Destroyed them, salvaged them
Gave them purpose,
A purpose of anger
And left them forever unable to feel the call
The vase cried
Cried, for it held such beauty once
Beauty that could have spoken to me
Beauty that though lost still did
But realized that it was only a whisper
And soon I drowned out that whisper
As I turned to the violent flower
Beautiful, no doubt
But deadly
Adorned with water,
No rot
Small pearls
Bearing my reflection
Oh if I could only look
But I'm too afraid
Of seeing the tar
That made me forget the greys
Inside myself.
