BLANK EPITAPH – A.G. Diedericks

a blank epitaph enshrined

in dust

blooms coal-black petals

of which her lovers pluck

one by one – here, ‘neath the seeds of repent

where requiems are born

beyond sound

beyond science

delineated in a still-life of an

open house

where she hangs

safe from the perversion

of words

absurdists have long tried

to unbolt

that which led her into

this refurbishment of memory

where she levitates

like an obstinate ghoul

taking refuge in the velvet underground.

Purple Senses ~ Samantha Rose

[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.