There is no such thing as a true blue flower. And yet, with them the ground lay thick. Foliage merge, their bleed, a water-colourist’s dream.

And then there’s truth.

A beacon to my hope, it rests behind eroded hinges and a butter-kissed gate of gold.

‘Unhinged’ they’d call me, but they spoke with eyes blind. They are no match for my richest, and most vivid imaginations.

Doubt lurks behind those spineless branches of the old world, and plays tag with celebration.

That ‘is-it-or-isn’t-it’ feeling, still resides within my shadowed self. I tried to shed that weighty shadow from my youth, but its refusal to harken to my zealous heartbeat, stressed my sinew and gnashed at my core.

But now the light will make me new again. For this is the era of rejuvenation. And eased, we shall be.

And the lie of the land will be for all to see.

Its doors are open now.

Words of truth etched in my bones, begin to speak with elevation, and memories take front seat.

‘Oh lie with goodness and rest heavy when your day is done. Your rise will steady your gait and stoke your glow, and loyalty shall rove about your inward parts—afire with love in your heart, as you embrace your days.’

Each mornings’ chant, you did recant, to ‘your’ perfect beat.

And now I shun your passing essence of earthly mornings; the smell of coffee lingers about my nose, merging with the salt-moisture welling in my philtrum.

Dawn holds the cold air tight, and squeezes. And a thousand breaths groan toward rebirth, throwing their discontent upward from the earth. They are swaddled in fake mysticism and conflicted. Blanketed by a bashful pride.

“Drink coffee, stay awake.” they said. “Let your eyes feast, for the gates to Niahgoramesh will be a balm to your ages of patience.”

I never did believe a word of it. Which is why I drank the tea.

And I waited.

Until the gate called to me.

The landing strip lights pin the entrance high, and far into the distance. With each step closer, a new sun winks and teases warmth. Its lure of honey-melt fondles the mouths of the early ones and to its warriors, brags a hearty fill.

I don’t know why I know this, I just do.

I will protect them all from altercation and wrestle back to ground any and all, who crawl on hand and foot to share their plague.

Those man-stains drank the coffee, but failed to smell the roses.

Sleep on they will, for blue roses are what they claimed to see. Their legitimacy lies beside them, spooning their slumber.

Look how they love with intimacy!

And ash and greys and granite crowns glorify their airy hard rock heads. Thoughtlessness lines their skulls.

Unjust?

How unloveable they are.

My philtral contour stretches to a smile, welcoming the golden brights. I now know, I was never blue.