The Magenta Agenda
The magenta agenda embedded upon a silk prison is a mirror illuminating synaesthesias.
Depth imperative, a lever of emotion eminence. For what is a prison? Doth it make me in sync with my sins? Mere society’s ills... See not the irony, hear not the irony, feel not the irony for in confinement with I the sinned comes forth spiritual compassion, material detachment; alleviation in passion. Yet I feel still of nothing, for I put myself in everything but something.
The magenta agenda is incense to the eyes intriguing dimensions in its absence of time. It impedes deep, moonstruck, capricious droplets rapturously stagnant, romantic in its flourish as it blossoms intense, rained from the beige walls the mind melted on its silky delicate milky skin.
She is the endless plane of love the virtue of the rain. In the midst of the perfume sprinkle of the twinkle of her tears splashed off those beige cheeks blushed as it breathes cherry blossoms from the ink of a maroon eye.
The magenta agenda is a perceptional impressionist to nurture the pleasure in her arms. The lakes envisioned within the portals shimmering inadvertently. It is a mystic glimmer in a lake of no liquid yet in shimmers silver embraced it inhales the light, slithered yet it is not dry. As a silk shell reflective but of not the physical entity that light entails. She is the aura not imprisoned.
The magenta agenda is the milonga of the angel; the impossible, the forever. She cries from her fingertips and between the molten skies. The leaves of her eyes are her body in the living of that which dies. She is an angel but not of those in the conception of the heavens which inherited from the hells in its birth of the earth wells.
She gazes and in her paining an array casts jade, painting the sky's walls, the essence of heaven. In beauty she rests frozen kissed upon a realm untouched from earth, heaven and hell. Ethereal as she is brought to lie in the shallow basin undermined of the beauty of the fruit of indecision’s compassion filled in the sapphire bleeding of anaesthesia between love and reason. The icy walls rain the canvas of the skies those eyes be the paw dancing on the lights.
I yearn for you to be happy but then you’ll be different.
Doth embed your last tear, draw the scarlet of now your ashen lips to your heart so shall it beat once more the earth may spin once more... the magenta agenda is.