Pomegranate

Hello sweet catastrophe,
Bitterness of the lime skin is how you taste.
Bitter like a broken man sitting on the steps,

Broken, uneven, yet ripened with youth.

Ripened like a scandalous, tantalizing pomegranate.

Scandalously concealing....

...most bitterest of you. (Hehe)

I am not a fool. But I don't know what else can be said and done.

But I am grateful He showed me. I'd rather be shown truth than live a lie. And I know I am not being tested anymore than I can handle. And I know He still loves me, because I've been selfish and obnoxious. He is just trying to make me have a stronger Iman. Reminding that I will one day return to Him.

Everything will be ok InsyaAllah. I just need patience. And to lose my watermelon ego.

Romanticism

Above is Casper David Friedrich's Wanderer Above The Sea Of Fog

The Romantic period was an era of 'imagination and intuition'. Of yearning and of uncertainty.

We're all inner romanticists aren't we?
The painting is just really cool, that is all.
Comparable to the image on the top right hand corner, perhaps.

Allegory of the Ship

For as long as we remember, we were convinced to step aboard the ship. Endeavoured by the fire nourished by the thoughts we always had of an unmistakeable escapade. We’re sailing away. Without a compass, and surrounded by the vastness of blue. Chasing horizons, after horizons. Leaving behind nothing more than trails of momentary waves. 

& maybe someday, we’ll return again to the coast where we started from.

Wrinkled, and grey haired.
Standing at the starboard deck of the ship,
Stepping out to same dock, where we stood once before we left.

Marveling at how nothing has changed,
But we’re somebody else now.

Violet

I'd like to be purple,
Like the violets of Saratoga
Fragrant like the spring
& docile like the wind.
Surrounded by blue Ulysses,
Fluttering their silky wings around me.

Wilted once crimson

Abandoned mailbox,
Of shredded post-cards
The truth is canvassed in red paint on the wall,

Into a vacant apartment off Vindicated Boulevard
She says the the ticking clock is misleading.

Concrete balcony,
Smudged with sublime,
Some things in this world she cannot steal,
The rotary telephone collecting dust
Long since it once would ring.

Pulled the sun into the blinds
By the brown wilted once crimson rose,
She left the broken glasses and a note.
There's much left, 

Too much,
& much too real.

I don't want to do this anymore.
I'm just going to hide under my bed now.
Goodbye.