Salve the Ouroboros

"Looking for a new place to begin

Feeling like it's hard to understand

But as long as you still keep peppering the pill

You'll find a way to spit it out again

And even when you know the way it's gonna blow

It's hard to get around the wind" 

  - Alex Turner, It's hard to get around the wind  from the EP, Submarine - Original Songs from The Film (2011)

Mignon. Abraham. Flowerpiece. 1670. Fitzwilliam Museum, University of Cambridge.

I've dipped the pillowed wrinkles, that faintly accentuate faint smiles of my past, into pools of desperation; they brace the lips and memories, that have kissed this head before, for a triumph of spring. I could waltz on the expanding mounds of frigid snow, from each mountainous crest to a plummeting trough, if it meant that these feet could no longer travel and trample on muddied soils. A single lotus can blossom amidst the harshest of conditions and I can no longer remain ignorant of a purpose intended for me. 

Bathed in yearnful dejection, I could fly paper airplanes into a daggered heart and still never define the shape of its cavity. There may be grief in being misunderstood but these chains no longer sing, with each clink of their links, to the sound of any voice that doesn't fit the shape of my shuttered larynx. Petals may have been premature to act on silly impulses but this is not the vex against those I've invited to cross over these pillars of severed wounds that needed bandages from solely myself. My blood cried for healing and I built a bridge, layered with idiocy, to allow others to skip over the relished past because it showed too much commitment for their liking. I'd rewire my brain in a split second, just to call upon a divinity and have them reassess if I am my own demise. 

Shy of light that glimmers and flickers of anything resonating warmth, I would ask to be the daughter of some force of nature -- one that drags down the weight of witch hazels that wilt and simmers the bite of dogtooth violets -- to simply realise that transformative effects of existence are carefully articulated by logs of periwinkle spontaneity. Build me a cabin of these logs and I see to it that this is a home named Isolation.  

Maybe it's preferable. 

Countless hours that have been stacked upon the fool's nose, these stars have collected into confusion and melded itself into a problem; I've been stuck on this puzzle and cannot intuitively choose the path I want to trek my calloused body down. If I sway to the left, should I tremble in the heat of encountering the sacred ouroboros of swimming to safety and familiarity, even if it hurts? And if I'm to veer right, shall I reinvent the mechanics that are faulty, within my mind, and become idyllic for a new prospect? 

Has this piece been knowingly given to the wrong puzzle?