Deep in the midst of a throbbing heartland,
Of blood, emotions and strings that tie,
A sage of life had a question to ask,
Inwards bound as I passed him by,
A life of sorrow had brought me there,
When deep within my heart I looked,
Burning red with anger and rage,
And in that pain I found a voice,
With a question that started a dark descent,
How much does it cost to tether all ties?
Dismantle hope and damage faith?
How much does it cost to live or die?
I was left arguing with myself,
With me as a spectator of my show,
And the more I saw the more I felt
That I was out of tune and place,
All alone, how nice it would be
To share my solitude with someone,
And then it clicked, the tingling grew,
I was the narrator of this book,
I hold the pen and the key,
To write the blank or leave the show,
So I forged on my page a few lines,
Let such a morning call me awake,
Dedicate this afternoon to your thoughts,
Let this evening be kept for you,
Let such a night be the dawn of love.
So large a gesture life is,
That death seems fleeting,
So humbling is that vast living,
So sudden the veil of death,
That we must fight to save life,
Amongst those who are misunderstood,
Less understood or the not-at-all,
We must fight with love as the weapon,
For only once does a chance come
To create a fairy-tale life, a story
Seeming impossible at its very sustainance,
Yet we ignore its very possibility,
In order to do what is right,
Not what we truly yearn,
And that feeling which sets us free,
Goes by fleeting, subdued,
We return to the present logic,
And start begging, looking for more,
Looking to make us whole again,
But that moment is gone forever,
The faith that looked at us for hope
Washed away misunderstood,
Drenched of all colours.
And we learn the significance of life,
Of moments of joy in trickles of rain,
Of strands of sunlight on the grass,
Of a soul to share our solitude,
And for that, that very rare gem,
That golden hue on grass,
Is why we must love all the living,
With all our love undefined.
And let the purple iris bloom again,
For it blooms without light, in cold or rain,
It blooms in the desert and stone the same,
That spring of hope is all it takes
To spark the feeling of forgotten love,
To spark a fountain of all desires,
Those only cherished by we the living,
When the magic is rekindled, let it flow,
The inner soul does not search that far,
To be at one with the purple iris,
One in love and one in war,
For in this life we must connect,
Who knows how many chances we get,
To make a book while we live,
Changing the lives of the unfortunate,
The less understood or the not-at-all,
To make a fairy-tale come to life,
Or live a dream even for a day,
Who knows how long the iris lasts?
Those not tormented by blood and mind,
For we try to get what we do not have,
Yet the iris remains eternal,
And when comes a day that it quickly dies,
Our eyes are opened for all we missed,
Or failed to reach, to interpret,
And purple becomes the new blue,
And me, just another stranger,
Out of colour, but not today,
For a purpose grew to protect that
Which I love, and with time,
Be worthy of its bloom.
