“Memories of Flowers/Tragedy in Ink”
A pen sets this scene
Serenity
Sanity
If only temporarily
This pool of still water
Sweet scent of tall grass
Flowers under the spring sunlight
Almost summer but not yet stifling
The perfect time of year
Bursts of color amid verdant meadows
Aroma like memories as she leans down
To recognize each individually
This red could be for her life
Livid with passion
Fiery defiance
Instead it is her blood
Shed to slowly as ages pass
The yellow could be for her joy
Knowing her beauty
Knowing her greatness
Instead it is her cowardice
Too weak to change
Too weak to try
This blue could be for strength
Armor like stone
To save her perfect heart
Instead it is her tears
Flowing freely as she recalls
Bits and pieces
Of fragments
Of thoughts
Of feelings
Of those she cannot hate
Of those she cannot destroy
Despite logic’s prompting
A self-defined tragedy
Distorted perceptions of her inferiority
The flaw that will bring everything down
And by this point in the story
It seems far too late for redemption
As Oedipus’ eyes, so too her heart
As Andronicus’ hand, so too her pride
As Juliet’s life, so too her own
The Muses are not without sympathy
Her playwright is herself
If she has the strength to change
Memories with every flower
Life recalled now hour by hour
The birds in the trees
And the birds in the sky
Look down upon her face
And see in it more beauty then elsewhere in nature
And the burden some emotions there of
They wonder silent from whence this tragedy springs
They wish for voices to comfort her
Twittering, whistling, cawing to her
Lovely tongues of nature but alas, futile in their efforts
She follows this path
Worn to dirt by so many before her
Kneeling by the bank, her white knees become dirty
Leaning forward over the water, so do her hands
The face she sees is like her own
Beautiful, but
Beauty is nothing she doesn’t want it to be
Ripples from her tears
Distort the surface
Distort her face
Justify her opinion
Justify her life
She stands and looks around
Wiping her hands on her dress
And she sees no one like herself
And comes to the conclusion that she is truly alone
And closes her eyes
And bows her head
And looks away
She picks up the pen and begins to write
The ending to the play that is herself
The Muses whisper to her softly
“There is room for one more act
Or even two or three”
“There is room for a new character
Someone to complement our heroine”
“There is room yet for a happy ending
Tragedy soon becomes for dull”
She sets down her pen
Picks up the flowers she has cut
In a vase on her desk
Examines them each, one by one
Red, Yellow, Blue
(From which the artist creates life)
She smells them each, one by one
Aromas like memories as she leans down
The stopper returns to the vial
The quill is cleaned of ink
The parchment rolled up and stowed away
Waiting for another day
To conclude this story
And the Muses sigh relief
For this work of art is far from finished
And they have plans for tomorrow
--Ben F. (taken out of a HHS Wild Hyacinth, year unknown)