Effloresced

"The book of love is long and boring

and written very long ago

It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes

and things we're all too young to know"

-The Magnetic Fields, The Book of Love from the album 69 Love Songs (1999) 

 

 

 

Heade. Johnson. Martin. Cattleya Orchid and Third Hummingbirds. 1871. 

    If natural constructs could be built upon personal definition, I would cast away the blues that precipitate and overcast the glow of inner-beauty; orchids are meant to bend to the will of the sun, not wilt into the haziness of the dark. My walls may be confined with wandering eyes, as if I were an exhibit within a zoo but the pollen that fluctuates like the restless tide, in my veins, wants to be a beacon of artistry. Not material to be gazed upon but to be analysed with winded comprehension; that is the overall objective of growth.

    To the inclination of divinity, I would sugarcoat stinging nettles if it meant that sensitive feet could comfortably walk over my being.  My mind does not possess thorns, no, but that of a honeysuckle's dew that drives sweet bandages to the pangs that have clipped the feathery nature of your wings. As canaries swim in a sea of ethereal puffs of cumulus, the Sun could set with a satisfactory yawn, knowing one treads the Earth with ease while the Moon knows the daily sacrifices I make to see it glow. 

    Born into a mellowed fruition, I want to live amongst the blossoms that aren't the average rows of conforming geraniums nor the possessed toxicity of masqueraded oleanders. Like wildflowers that dance in bellowing pillages, liberation of mind and soul is where I ought to be. And where is this new-found sense of freedom with no soil rooted beneath me?