Song of my Violet Head

I.

Song of my violet soul, song of my searching heart,
song of my silent tongue—
I listen, and yearn to sing along.
Song of my selective patience
and my sentimental fancies,
O Song of my somber joy—
I itch to sing, to share, to gloat.

II.

I see nothing, taste nothing,
nothing touches me.
Is nothing more fascinating than I?
I, egocentric, one among
the many, so few of whom
I see; so few of whom touch me.

I see all, prematurely
through violet eyes—
stagnant, static, one at apoltitudes
where air is thin, air is lonely.
Air is not so patient,
as yet reluctant to spare a single breath.
And so I seek them on my own.

III.

I sip words, savouring,
my violet tongue smeared
with a flavorful myriad of diversities.
Luscious adjectives, shallow synonyms,
blustering oxygen, and deadening phlegm.
Some satisfy, but most reek of inadequacy.
And so I inhale ever more deeply,
drag them in until they strike—“Ah.”
And then I can exhale. And I smile.

Each new success, each time new breath
saturates my violet blood— Clarity.
For a moment I understand
Life, and why we put up with it.
And why we are not defeated.

It fades quickly— a numb mind is hardly a sponge.
But I try, I try, I try;
whispered cuisines are mine to find,
painfully archaic.
I taste them,
feel them aloud for the first time,
and they are mine.
To collect and process
until they are mere remnants-
watered down, battered and stripped,
to a tangible, coherent form I can express.

IV.

Purplish delight clouds my obscurities,
takes hold of me, and I
am one with my age—as it should be.
My age is loud and it moves;
it pounds, it shakes,
it capitalizes, it hedonizes.
We are a crowd, we move together
in sporadic and wild abandonment.
Violent bright light explodes- acquiescence.
My erratic dancing joins the harmony, and
“Ah,” I breathe, “So this is how it’s done.”

We are the new generation,
first to be coddle-wired
to feel, to think, to succeed.
We are crickled, riddled with metallic emptiness.
Satiation is soothing fluorescence,
blinding to inventive thought. Paralyzing,
it indoctrinates heady serenity.
We shed, afraid to walk alone.

My modern mind: a deer in the headlights.
Why live beyond this omniscient machine?
My modern mind: useless as such.
Better would Sylar take it-
pulchritudinous beauty, at least,
I can be sure to appreciate.

V.

Violet hopes pined
when I neglected them,
souring in my afterthoughts-
miniature tragedies
souring my sweet perspective.
Violet pities the way I cry.
“Have faith” says she,
and pities the way I try.
As I do, whilst I watch
lovers grow, and die,
from idealistic soil
in my wistful mind.
I take them to heart;
indeed, I bury them there.

Imagination is as real as anything I’ve found,
and fiction by far more satisfying.
It succeeds where reality fails
in quenching my vocal cravings.
Imagination lives with passion in my violet, violet head.

VI.

Violet is contradiction, passion.
Violet is compromise.
She is basic, she is infinite.
She is red and she is blue.
She is man and woman,
hope and despair, new and old.
Violet is the potent muse.

Violet is the fusion
between what we are alone
and what we are together.
Violet is the potent muse.

Violet wrestled me, and won.
Her compelling guidance
seduced me forth
from the wallflowers,
and pulls me forward still.
She is the essence
of artists,
the sustenance of wit.
She is the key to beauty,
subtlety, change.
Violet is the ever potent muse.
She cares for me, and all
that blooms alive and well
in my ever violet head.