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Chrysanthemums and Roses; A Collection of Poetry


Eryane
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qOGVj_s3Bo

 

CHRYSANTHEMUMS AND ROSES

A Collection of Poetry written by Lady Milena of Woldzmir 

 

For even if roses may be my favorite from the garden, they still have thorns that prick and bleed in spite of their sweet scent; and chrysanthemums are used ceremonially upon a loved one’s grave. Both are utterly beautiful on their own, without deeper thought into one’s mind. 

 

It is my wish that in spite of the words on the surface of the missive, one might find their own relativity in the spaces between the stanzas. There is more to the stroke of the pen than the ink that settles dry on the paper, as is similar to all matters of scribed work from fictional authors to historical scholars. Might you, dear reader, aim to do the same and strive for the connotative over denotation in all walks of life; perhaps we all ought to be better off for it.

 


 

The Dying Rose 

Wilted petals and wrinkled lines,

Ever a bloom since lost in time.

The rose of my garden, which once stood tall over the others

At so young already sees its curtain.

 

My flower is eclipsed, 

By another whose youth is fixed.

Has the sun traded its rays?

Or am I betrayed?

 

I cannot help but feel dismayed,

At the garden I had made

And come to the conclusion 

Mayhaps it is gardening that is not for me.

 

A Final Dance 

Betwixt endless pristine column

In the jewel of Oren,

A ballerina pranced

Reveling in the joy of her dance 

For the hall was empty,

And that was company plenty. 

 

Pirouette and chassé that was her life,

Would not hinder her lonely strife.

Her legs once so strong, 

Were nothing but and no longer. 

Tumbling and collapsing she was sent,

To the ballroom floor in sudden descent.

 

The clicks of a boot grew close

Approached a man of solemn repose,

Wearing no colors but onyx clothes

A hand thus was proffered her way,

From where that ballerina did lay.

 

She arose from the floor at his behest 

Eager to know why she so yearned for him, possessed

Sadness lined his features and a black bird rested on his shoulder,

Yet she did not mind, smiling as she grew colder 

They danced through the dusk and into the night

Til he whisked away her terrors with an endless white

 

Amidst the colorless that consumed her she could not see,

Not far nor wide nor even he. 

A crow cawed in the far in the distance,

But there was nothing else in existence. 

For her new world was empty,

And that was company plenty.  

My Chrysanthemum

Frail petals and tiny stem,

To what horrors have you been condemned?

My lovely chrysanthemum, 

Why are you so numb?

 

All the other flowers prefer the light,

And yet you prefer the dark of the night. 

My lovely chrysanthemum,

Where did your fear of the sun come from?

 

They pick and tear at your white petals,

And what they have done to you unsettles

The faint hearted, the innocent eyes. 

You cannot hide in a disguise,

With only one petal remaining

And the color from you draining.

 

My lovely chrysanthemum,

Why do you succumb?

 

The Hidden Beast

Thunderous lightning and harsh downpour,

A wandering soul makes a knock on the door.

Hushed patters and murmurs within,

The sound of a hundred locks begin to unspin. 

Locks half undone a beady eye crept outwards,

Assessing once over without words.

 

“Who is it?” He calls out then,

Voice so quiet one could hear a drop of a pin.

“I am a beggar from the city,”

Thus leaving the man with pity,

For the poor woman who stood before him.

Yet behind the door was far more grim. 

 

A monster stares at him with eyes so red,

Whispering, “Let her in and you’ll soon be dead.” 

He pained and turmoiled from where he stood,

And could not do the greater good. 

For the monster’s words are always wise,

And never were they to be thought of as lies.

 

“Go away,” he told her,

And she left with not a stir.

“Now I am alone, without a friend.”

But the monster reminded him of who he would depend.

For the creature that crept so near,

Would forever whisper in his ear. 

 

 

 

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Chrysanthemums and Roses

There is a beautiful meadow

In which not a soul imposes

Where I lay my head to sleep.

I rest by the chrysanthemums and the roses,

The lilies and forget-me-nots,

Drifting away with my thoughts. 

 

Tick, tock, tick, tock

The flowers about me wilt in time,

Vibrant grass fading to stale yellow.

Still I lull in the meadow that once was mine,

When all else is gone and astrayed

And the clouds above me have since greyed. 

 

Coarse is the remnants of grass to touch

But should I close my eyes

Will what once was come again?

To the place where all good thrives,

Where I wish to always remain, without sorrow

Before the threshold of tomorrow. 

 

There was a beautiful meadow

In which not a soul imposed

Where I lay my head to sleep

Amidst the withered flowers, eyes closed.

Through the winter and snow and rain,

Forever in the meadow is where I shall remain.

 

Edited by Eryane
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The Baroness of Woldzmir heralded the release of the assorted poetry directly from her daughter, whilst she sat in the parlor of their homestead beside its hearth. She peered into the inconsolable flames, resigned to silence. A lone tear slipped against the hollow of her cheek, Milena’s sentiments panging relentlessly in her mind.

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Dima read his young sister's poems (only skipping over the Dying Rose to her as it made him feel rather uneasily) to his daughter at night and telling her how their aunt was going to be a renowned writer fifty times over. "Perhaps you should aspire to be a renowned playwright like your grandmother or a renowned writer like your aunt when you are older?" He offered as small comment to her. When his daughter slept, he went to visit his sister to speak to her about melancholy-- knowingly oblivious as to why his sister felt so melancholic but trying to console her nonetheless with words of the Seven Skies and of God.

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Sigismund, having abandoned the world of literature some time ago, attributes little greater meaning to his sister's words. Perhaps he still thought her too young to devise anything of substance, or perhaps his own mind was simply incapable of finding it. Regardless, he can appreciate Milena's craft, putting the beauty of her prose into high esteem, and recognizing that her skill with the pen is far beyond many, including himself. Sometimes at night, as he wanders the streets of Providence in search of dinner, he recites some memorable lines softly to himself.

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When in doubt with her own craft the young Lady Emerentia would reflect upon the beauty in the young Carrion's poetry. With inspiration ushered into her from the crafted pieces from the written art she would smile and silently appreciate every syllable and word before pushing on.

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