The magnificent trivialities that poets have forgotten to ode
Must’ve been fated unto the cheap ink of an aspiring poetess.
In the round where we live,
Variety and difference merge into one, not to simplify
But to complicate.
The free wide breathing blue
From where, I believe, oblivion starts.
Distant for science but nearer to the eye
I blend into the enchantment but just as an observer.
The spacious blue engulfed by what afore seemed a specimen of art,
Ate up the joy of being invincible.
The same wicked white now layered in hierarchy.
Formed out of benevolence they say,
But only the scattered ones in the west seem abundant of heavenly bliss,
Where an innocent and desperate eye expects to see a castle.
Illusion chooses itself, mortals can only imagine.
Transcending from the stained golden I observe an advertised white
Pure, glowing and ruffled.
Swelled with consecration in its purest form,
Still stretching in the hope of being heavenly stained.
The grey treading after the white fades into a symbol of oblivion,
The color black where the man who pronounced the existence of silver lining,
Was literally true to himself, observing a dark cloud.
Power, Poem, Prose 