Royal purple is the pigment of her dreams.
Dare she roam the valley
Where the blue gentian bloom?
Like the evening star
She heralds the night with her esprit...
Will she meet him again;
the horseman of her dreams
Who longs for sweet fellowship and a warm embrace.
A life interrupted like a sentence in midthought
Once an ice sculpture
Chiseled out by careless words
Meant to chip away at her integrity
She escaped the fire
With barely the smell of smoke and
a few frayed ribbons
Hope rises from the ashes;
like a mixture of fire and ice.
Just as certain as the mahogany chrysanthemum
appear in the autumn sun
Her eyes of chrysolite still shine
and see him standing at the garden gate...
where the blue gentian bloom.