Young Writers Society

A colour poem I had to write for creative writing.

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Your eyes, so insipid with such a masquerade of illumination,
Reflecting an over glow of divine lust.
The carbonation deep within the jade, thick as chrism, the supposed brilliance,
Is nothing more than plagiarism and stout perjury.

The wine dripping, and waiting in cups, for the dance with the madness of Eleutherios
To begin.
I crave the ecstasy of Eros, and the angelic and neurotic flute of Dionysus,
For them to carry me into such
Sweet in-sanity,
This is what I long for.
Though,
Under the mask of all this,
Inside of you,
Under those eyes painted green,
Is a worn down, over indulged, withering
Ego waiting to die.

And one day everything will be turned to Jade. Pessimistically.
Lest we forget.

Unless we forget.

Let me meet with Dionysus,
Let me meet and drink and dress myself in Eros.
I will then be your fool.
At every word will I come.
Lapsus memoriae.
The empty filled
Within me,
And I will edify you.
And I will grow into you.
And I will imbathe royally in the Jade waters.

The symbols of Pagan’s slipped me the stories of
Fate and seducing the goddess, the Nymph.
I dreamt these rare dreams into realities that I’m convinced of,
This folly, these fancies, the delightful tangible fantasy is real.
Your eyes, so sincere. Jade, I must sip
It so slowly to not overdose from the richness, the depth, and from the potency.