A BOUQUET OF LETTERS

[spicii 1131]

 

 

Before your eager canvases lay a dexterous collection of poems composed and formulated by Her Royal Majesty, Vivienne Anastasie. Each has been engulfed with impeding thought and sentiment, from her own to you. “Dedicated to whomever’s worn, warm afternoon hands come upon these pages – wherever you may find them–and that you may remember that the world is conspiring for you and to act in a manner as such.”

 

Spoiler

Some of these poems have been posted before and some have not, enjoy :)

 

 

 

A swan gilded grandiosely aloft patinated papyrus.

Tactfully did its tawny pinions unfurl sprightly

elegantly enveloping halcyon rivulets of jaded serenity.

Like that of a beguiling ballet dancer to its 

opulently crafted point slipper.

               Poisonous.

   Her exemplary essence transmitted luminously

               Obsessive, one may hypothesise

         Betwixt its sugary semblance

inside layers of rehearsed upon rehearsed fluctuations

                     A credulous cygnet lay tenderly ; undisturbed.
 

 

Golden aspen leaves smother the ground.

Blades of grass cut through the dense amber

searching for warmth from the summer’s lost sun.

I stumble; head down, on a gravelled path,

beneath a high bridge of ominous branches

musing if the handful of still flailing leaves 

will stem oozing blossom from the sombre skyline. 

 

I lay callously upon a bleak river.

Moth-eaten cattails trembling within the wind,

And lotus circles struggling to stay afloat.

I ponder, do they lament their fallen crowns?

The sky reverse ; reverses gold for brown

As brittle leaves resign, crumble and drown.

I feel this landscape dying deep within me.

 

A swan glides into my world of despair,

and softly sings his sonorus song.

I lightly descend into his ready reflection.

Although of disparate form—we merge—

grappling with onerous thoughts,

 we yet slowly rotate to a hopeful perception– 

a visible and radiating inner complexion.

 

 

My being nothing more 

than a rouse, played

by generations, collaboratively.

With no winners,

 or losers.

Or even such a tranquil

ending.

Nothing but a framework,

built of dissembled ideology. 

 

My being nothing more

than a piece of concept art

How does one view me?

Ephemeral and permanent 

at once. 

She is liquid smooth, 

And feel her touch is 

plump and brimful 

of life.