[Ode to Albert Camus]
Purple smells like
The passing of ages,
The time-singed edges of a secret journal
full of bleeding ink from tear stains and coffee spatters,
Crinkled old newspapers with melancholy stories,
Bonfires on the beach in the thunder and pouring rain,
Dewy lavender swaying in the wind,
And fear in the unknown and confidence that it’s all we have.
Purple sounds like
The echoes of nostalgia,
The creaking wheels on an abandoned childhood wagon,
The bone-like crunching of fallen maple leaves underfoot,
A sad song playing on an old piano for no one in particular
accompanied by the steady drum of heartbeats
pattering like rain to the sound of their own revolt.
Purple looks like
The depths of absurdity,
The amethyst rainy hay-daze
outside the cracked and dusty window of an abandoned farmhouse,
Pumpkin patches with tattered straw scarecrows shrouded in twilight,
The dog-eared pages of ancient philosophies,
And “the certainty of a crushing fate,
without the resignation that ought to accompany it.”*
Purple feels like
Velvet loneliness and mystery,
Soft heather fields pressed by the bottom of muddy boots,
A warm mug encompassed by two frosted hands in October,
Accumulating energy in a rising storm and eerie stillness thereafter,
Tragic twist endings hooked in sentimental vicariousness,
And the weight of time and space.
Purple tastes like
Bittersweet memories and existentialism,
Clear water from cracked, neglected fountain heads,
Dark chocolate and black coffee,
A single snowflake melting on the tongue as cars pass by,
Cold, violet lips kissed when daydreams are better than reality,
And true self-awareness coated in the confections of inner chaos.
* Albert Camus, The Stranger
© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018
You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.