an Ode of impressions.

The Soul of the Rose, also known as My Sweet Rose, painted in 1908 by John William Waterhouse.

Oh, Life

And it’s grasping venomous tentacles,

Nectar sweetening our lips,

Snow-capped evergreens of a winter which lasts e’re long–

(yet they scintillate persistently).

Music of falling embers,

A ripening desert blossom,

Mouth besmeared with berries of pure vermillion,

Drunken festival libation;

Lore of lowly silver pinnacles,

Musings upon a fine, untuned instrument,

Unwholesome “vitaminous” vegetable—

Unbecoming circus spectacle.

The sensuous brushstrokes of an old and weary figure,

Mind-illumed galaxies smearing a moonless trench,

Wandering babe among weeping willows,

Harvests of limp cashew nuts, of pinecones, decorating a placid, uprooted branch;

Curdling spices within a measly, palatable stew,

and ribbons ‘round placid table wear.

Galloping girdings of the honeybees,

Sugared whiskers dancing in the snout of a lioness pup.

Leaves entwined, trapped in a spider’s cumbersome net,

and glittering lavender gashes upon a voluptuous evening gown.

A perfumed cloak of a nimble, jesting fugitive,

Or dancing fire-swordsmen wielding weapons of forest saplings.

Sunspots on an unlit shore,

Scuffling red and yellow leaves blown yonder,

And plumping homely pillows against Night’s frigid course.

Still we, as ever, reaching for that Morning Star

Which becomes not our mild station.

What is life but He, that Astér,

Who hears our cry and hearkens,

Attentive, silent,

And slowly whispering, humanely, cries:

“Ye are already burning”?