*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺ xitlali ༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

how i mourn for the night sky 18 | proud latina | queer

[xitlaliwrites]

'indecisive' – the irony

A squirrel goes back and forth—swinging and rocking,

Heavy grass swirls with optimism; there lies a daffodil,

Flowers away, a bridge ever so confident stares back with its planks croaking,

What is nature with purposes so defeating? 

A glamorous pond reflects a lily or peony,

An uncommon choice must be chosen before it is too late,

Heavens, o' sweet heavens with the garden of beauty, will swallow them both—while hell will only take one. 

What is nature with purposes so defeating? 

Mother Nature woes, for sorrow or joy, 

Her creations all built the same from within— yet so different,

Staring endlessly, a purpose so defeating wipes natures tears engulfing the vast terrace, 

What is nature with full of love? 

Vines and weed take over, roaming so high, 

The sun shines bright while rain continues to pour,

Rays of colors shines between the vast world full of irony,

And so, what is nature with purposes so defeating yet full of love? 

[xitlaliwrites]

'amor fati' – the beginning

The filthy nails of a deprived creature reach towards the fertile land of blooms– Frightened, terrified, disgusted, the blooms entomb themselves further underground, Forthwith comes the choking breaths of the atmosphere, who can only respond to the crawling gloom, The trees bend and crack, akin to the tough nailbeds that rip themselves apart, the unknown screeching and bound. 

Lavender petals–majestic and angelic–battle to crawl out of the oppressed sensation of grimy hooks, Resisting with its vulgar appendages, the petal flesh blooms and quivers,  Liberated, the lavender spreads around the many jewels, who quietly condemn the crook– For it only resides beside the jewels when it is convenient, repeatedly making them shiver.

The brute, long forgotten, burns in forbidden flame, Spreading its scorch, the indecisive wreaths notice their divine scents,  Ephemeral and blessed by Aphrodite, they radiate in content, Buds previously buried rise to the songs of the Doves and Sparrows, no longer tame. 

The chains to a cruel fate of an unfinished novel shatter loudly, No longer does the pungent metallic taste overwhelm the senses, Rather it fills the novel with words violets and lilies would flaunt in defense, At last, the garden of Eden burgeons to one of Amor Fati.