The saint's self-portrait was evil, pretending to be good.
A person of no true color, yet a shell of white.
He saw a reflection of falsity.
Yet through endless gales,
Journeys,
Milestones and foot through vale;
He was met by love.
This love fell;
Forever covered in veil.
He should've been him,
But who?
The thought which he or the other so natural?
Perhaps even the thought shall be rational.
So onward once more;
Onward he must sail.
His boat was in cloud,
Each cloud was a multitude of light
The imagination on dark; vastly sea afloat.
Perhaps he'll realize himself,
As dejection comes from who which felt;
The envy of an off-white rose.
YOU ARE READING
The White-Rose Saint
PoetryA poetically structured story that is tied into the over-arching story of my other works. Many strings of words are both metaphorical, and literal; if not one of the two. Perhaps even the mundane hold the key to decipher meaning?
