The Amaranthine Poet

The Trouble with Purple-Washed Roses

Sometimes I think that being a writer…not just writing, but being the writing, bleeding the writing, breathing the writing, depending on the writing, dreaming the writing…being a writer…is the most dangerous position to be in, as far as mentality goes. Because once you create satisfaction and healing and beauty in your own worlds, you turn your eyes back to reality and realize that it is nothing worth returning to. Then you turn back around to enter into your own created worlds, but you crash against a cold wall. Because that is what they do. You create them and they turn their backs on you and lock you out, behind cold walls and strongholds. And if you put your hand against the wall, you can feel the heat of unbridled pain, the dripping of consoled tears, the beating of excitement and gratification within, but you may not enter. If you do, you would not return. Afflicted by a deep feeling of malaise, you return to the unextraordinary reality, questioning whether or not you are too insignificant, or your life is too ephemeral, or your voice is too muted, or your ideas are too suppressed to be able to become and encourage something extraordinary to surface in this world. Why is everyone afraid to paint reality with the vibrant colors of dreams? We paint with dust and I am afraid of that. I am afraid.

Anyway, who knows what this has to do with my poem below…but my mind often wanders as we all are quite aware of…and since most people read my stuff on myspace now or skip over any piece of text that overwhelms them in length, it is possibly affirmed that no one will even read this.

People “hear” me better when I sing, but that is because it is a lot easier for them to listen than to read…takes less effort. Now, don’t be offended, because if you are reading this, you obviously don’t fall under that category . However, everything I have to say seems to be vaguely lost within a sea of voices whose ranges far exceed my own. Even when I sing, I highly doubt anyone is listening to my words and interpreting their meaning. If they were, they would know a lot more about me than they think they do. Some of my friends think they know me just because they know that I carry around a journal or sing or pick up random things from the ground or wash my hands all the time….but come on, ha! Those are things a stranger can easily observe. You don’t know me and I don’t know you, either. Now, I am not implying that I am someone particularly worth knowing, but just that we are pieces of artwork on display within little, soundproof, foggy glass boxes. IF you want to know me, just read what I write. Just listen when I sing. But I don’t know, maybe it’s a good thing when people don’t know you. I suppose I prefer to be the observer rather than being the observed.

Wow, well I’ve unintentionally gone off in two directions. Regarding them both, I hope I’m not coming off as being too cynical; there is just nothing here that stirs me up anymore, or at least, right now. Perhaps I ask for too much, but there is just nothing really here for me anymore.

The Trouble with Purple-Washed Roses

Like stifled oaths provoked by maniacal threats
They mean nothing
And I am sitting at the broken ledge
Writing of sandy skies and other porous metaphors
When a voice thick with gravel
And an aura swollen with
A deep cobalt haze and shallow breaths
Are what truly sifts through my shut eyelids
Like some kind of rain

My head has found rest on plush white roses
But my dreams have bled a stream of purple
Nectars, upon hearing his graveled voice.
Now my roses are like
Shadows
Reflecting the muffled groans behind
My dreams. The world within is shifting
Making whispered sounds that
Haunt like slurred incantations
As monsters mount a jagged woman

And my sleep is thick with wait
My spirit hides beneath the covers of night
Awaiting the gravel to unravel, pour
And spill out into the folds of reality.

And the world is deaf
But not you.
Fingers snap and
Thorns are snapped
And as you carry me back
I find the roses
In your pocket
And hold them until
My fingertips are stained

The trouble is
They’re stained.

Jenna Awad

People of the Black Cocoons

People of the Black Cocoons

I’ve talked with one of them before. I walked near her black cocoon, which heaved like a balloon and erupted slowly from the crusted earth. Her fingers unfolded and I could see her silhouette where the sun pierced through the cocoon. She spoke to me with her hands. Said she could feel me there and wasn’t sure she wanted me there. All around me were more cocoons erupting from the earth. Some of them appeared to be full of water and I heard the gurgling sounds of drowning within. The water is their tears, she told me. They wish that they could once again watch ravens carry the rainbow in their iridescent wings. They wish that they could lie in quiet fields again and drench their hands and feet in the sweet nectars of lush grass—smell the scent of emerald water staining the white-washed roses in the humming afternoon. They want to kiss the smooth, pale bark of the astrakhan trees and sway to the chimes of the birds. But they’ve given up and they’ve given it up. They shiver within the cold world they’ve hidden under. And they strain to hear the footsteps overhead, but nothing can be heard over their resounding groans.

I didn’t stay to hear anymore. I left her; I watched her fingers fold and her head drop. And the pearl of the sky beamed and could be found casting golden flakes into the emerald waters and pouring into the empty holes of the earth and swimming gracefully in the milk of an orchid.

Jenna Awad

If there is anything that the people of this world have mastered, it is the “art” of hurting others and hurting ourselves. Mothers, fathers, children, friends…these have become mere titles, and the intimacy of their meanings are often void. We carry the blood and heartache of so many people on our hands and manipulate each other into adapting deformed perspectives. We try to kill others and sometimes, cunningly so, we hand them the knife so that they can do it themselves and we don’t even realize it most of the time and when we do we don’t even care or try to change. We call ourselves “good” people, but by who’s biased standards are we measuring this claim? How many people do I see drowning in black cocoons and how much of the water is their tears and how much of it is our own?

And people say this world has no need of a savior. I guess pride is another “art” we’ve mastered.

Psalm 18:16-18 “He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters. He rescued me from my powerful enemy, from my foes who were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my disaster, but the Lord was my support.”

Psalm 18:27-28 “You save the humble but bring low those whose eyes are haughty. You, Lord, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light.”

Luke 8:12-15

©Jenna Awad. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication
without express permission by the author by any means, mechanical,
electronic or otherwise is a violation of all application laws.

I Am In Love

I Am In Love

This is not a story. It is an ardent declaration.

I am in love. So deeply in love. My heart at this very moment is filled with this indescribable feeling. A feeling that is so real and so moving that it urges me to immediately drop everything in this world and run into my love’s arms and stay there forever if my purpose on the earth had already been fulfilled. My entire world has been transformed by him, my love. Completely transformed. I lose my breath at the thought of him, my heart races and leaps when I am in his presence and I am filled with such an overwhelming joy that I am not sure my heart can contain it, which is why I am writing this love letter and sharing it with everyone who happens to read it.

He has taken complete hold over my life. My entire perspective has changed, my very nature has changed. Those who know me know that I used to aspire to becoming a famous singer and a world-renowned writer . However, I have come to feel, passionately and completely feel, that if I happen to hold any influence on the world, I hope to do so, not through fame and fortune, but through the glorification of the love of my life, my beautiful Lord Jesus. (Matthew 6:19)
I’ve found that every song I write ends up as a love song to him. Every story I write ends up with him as the hero. I love all my friends and I just pray so deeply that all of those who haven’t already, will come to know, understand and feel this amazing love, this living, breathing, glorious mercy of the Spirit of God that has gripped my heart and has put me in a place where my only desire is to worship him and shout in complete and utter joy. And to know and to feel what the Lord has done and has offered to everyone, no matter what degree of sin and guilt rests upon her/his heart, brings me an indescribable feeling of awe and love. I have seen many places, that are unhidden from all who seek, which thrive and beat with the very heart and spirit of God. Many amazing things I have seen, and these things have witnessed to me the truth of his Word and have left me without one doubt in my mind.

For those who have not already realized, all the stories that I have written, all the work that I have posted up on here and on my website have been complete testimonies of Jesus’s incredible mercies toward me. They have been figurative stories of the literal events in which the Lord has saved me from the weakening and painful grip of evil forces, which are claimed to be unseen, but whose foul and deceptive works are clearly evident in this decaying world. Even the writings, which some of you have read prior to my relationship with Jesus, is a witness to the misleading powers of this world and the desperate need within every heart for the way, the truth and the life: Jesus Christ. (John 14:6). I’m telling you, in all honesty, if you wish to love the Lord with all your heart and truly seek him, you will see the most amazing miracles and grace and your eyes will be opened and will discern beautiful truths, victories, as well as the present spiritual warfare. (Proverbs 8: 17). However, if it is not your will to love him with all your heart or to enter his love, then I ask you, please do not tell the world that you love him, because such a lie is heartbreaking to him and misleading for others. As we all need to be reminded, you cannot serve the world and him at the same time (Matthew 6:24; Revelation 3:16). You cannot walk in the Spirit and in the world simultaneously (Galatians 5:16-17)

Our hearts are searching for a truth, which evidently exists; just look around. That is why I am so fascinated with nature, with the ever-changing sunsets of each day, with the most incredible flowers and trees and fields of this world that scintillate against the warmth of the sun and exude the most beautiful and diverse scents. I am fascinated with the many convenient functions of the human body, identical and natural in all human beings: tear ducts, thumbs, eyes, feet, arms, organs. I know it sounds funny, but if you really think about it, what is the explanation for so much perfection? How can there exist such a flawless design? How? How can one explain the very souls of people, the fact that we are living individuals with feelings and memories and hopes? Why do we have so many functions which are unnecessary for survival but evident in all human beings? For example: the desire to love, human nature, the appreciation for beauty, the fact that tears create an emotional release, etc. We are not mechanical. We are not robots. We are not dead particles of the earth or pieces of flesh that sway, lifelessly, in the wind. We are living. We are life. One of my professors once mentioned that a writer is an expert of observation. Well, during my thorough observation, I could not help but question these unanswered mysteries and I refused to miss out on the truth. I have questioned so many things and have found answers only in God’s Holy Spirit. The only explanation is God. And the proof I received was in the movement and voice of his Holy Spirit. I knew there was a truth, something I was missing, and I found it in the one true God. And, excuse the cliche, but the truth set me free. And just the fact that God has given us all different fingerprints is like a declaration of his love, showing us that he does not see us as one lost entity of life, but rather as individuals; unique and personalized by the works of his precious hands.

I am in awe. But my heart is saddened by the fact that sin has separated us from God. Which is why I am so incredibly in love. So extremely in love with my Jesus. My God, who loved the world so very much that he sent his only begotten son, that whoever should believe in him should not perish but have everlasting life (John 3:16). I can’t describe how that makes me feel. All I know is that Jesus has saved me and rescued me from the depths of hell. He has literally renewed my heart (Ezekiel 36:26).

Those who have known me for a while are witnesses of my complete transformation. And I no longer care who thinks I should not express this love or share this love. I no longer care who thinks I shouldn’t think about him all the time or give too much of my life to him. I no longer care who is reading this and rolling their eyes or mocking me or who stopped reading the moment they saw the name of Jesus (John 15:18-20). I no longer care who thinks that my life is somehow not as “fun” or “enjoyable” because I have chosen to follow him. Because, truthfully, my life has NEVER been more exciting, more fruitful, more joyful, more wonderful, more complete, and more whole! (And I mean each of these adjectives in their deepest, most sincere forms, practically shouting them out in my mind with emphasis). And if this is what some have called “blind faith,” well, then I must be delusional, because what I have seen, felt and experienced through the Holy Spirit has opened my eyes to things I never even conceived were possible (1 Corinthians 2:4).
It may be difficult for those who don’t know him to understand this, but if you seek after him, you will FEEL what I mean, and you will understand how, as I write this, my heart is filled with this indescribable feeling.

I am in love. So in love with you, my Lord, my Jesus. And the thought of being with you forever, Lord…makes me anticipate even more the day when I will find myself in your arms. I use the pseudonym “Amaranth” with my writing because you have made me an unfading flower by giving me everlasting life. But Lord Jesus, you are the true Amaranthine Poet. Your Word will never fade. I willingly praise and worship you forever.

Love, your (LG),
Jen Jen

Jenna Awad

2 Timothy 2:24-26 *

2 Timothy 2:8-13 Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, descended from David. This is my gospel, for which I am suffering even to the point of being chained like a criminal. But God’s word is not chained. Therefore I endure everything for the sake of the elect, that they too may obtain the salvation that is in Christ Jesus, with eternal glory. Here is a trustworthy saying: If we died with him, we will also live with him; if we endure, we will also reign with him. If we disown him, he will also disown us; if we are faithless, he will remain faithful, for he cannot disown himself.

1 John 4:19 We love him, because he first loved us.

Proverbs 3:5 Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.

Ezekiel 36:26 A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you a heart of flesh.

Ephesians 2:1-10*

James 4:14 Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.

Brush Strokes

I saw him standing there. He trembled as a cold burst of intelligent thought surged through his mind and broke open his pupils. His mouth moved, overwhelmed with words which held the secrets of malicious and quiet beauty. His mouth moved with words, but he moved no one with his words. A golden aura bled through his veins, bursting through his skin. It shook the ground and sent sharp chills up the earth’s feeble spine. He lifted his hand to the sky, grabbing a storm of laughter which poured from his core just seconds before. I stood hidden behind a coy shadow cast down by a moon buried within spun cotton.

His discerning gaze built strong walls before him and I knew he understood. I knew he understood everything which he saw. I wanted him to see me and understand, but he wouldn’t have it. I didn’t exist to him. Even when I accidentally…ok, deliberately crushed a fallen leaf under my foot…the disruptive sound didn’t beckon his gaze. He stood, a fury of knowledge locked in his eyes. He stood, staring at the blank walls before him. He began painting pictures on them; abstract illustrations of his understanding, of all he knew. So perfect, so precise. I wanted him to understand me. I took a deep breath and when the wind grew still and hushed I leaned forward and let out an exaggerated sigh, hoping I would make my presence known…but still, not one of his muscles twitched. He continued to paint and I continued to be a blank wall. His thoughts controlled the brush strokes: blurred images of orange paradise and grey blistered pain. I was angry now, I was being ignored. I stepped out from behind the shadow and sprinted toward him, and tripped–tripped on nothing. My chin bit the ground and I blew out another sigh, blowing up dust. Dust clouding around my face, stinging my eyes. Dust reaching out it’s limbs and reaching out for him. I looked up at him and the dust billowed around his feet, curling around his legs, erasing him. I crawled toward him, grabbing, pleading. By the time I reached where he was, he was gone, completely erased. Copper dust thickened, assumed his form, then dispersed unmercifully. I tried to gather it, suck it deep into my lungs, hoping that I would steal away some of his knowledge.

I fell to my knees, my chin throbbing. Something cold dripped onto me…rain? Blood? Tears? No, I looked up and saw the strong walls which he painted with his knowledge. Yellow, blue, pink drips of paint slid off the walls and poured over me, surrounding me. Images drooping, fading, smearing, falling. I held out my hands and watched as the fresh paint drenched them. Nothing was around me anymore. No moon, no clouds, no walls, no ground, no man…just colors.

I was a single cell cast into a blazing rainbow. Red, purple ribbons wrapping tightly around me, humming, fizzing. Soft green rivers filling my mouth, wrapping tightly around my lungs. I have no air, but I realize I have never truly breathed until this moment. Strong pink arms cradle me, whispering dreams to me which I know I will forget but which breathe for me. Strong pink arms lift me and I fall asleep…

I wake up, colors sullen and still beside me, but no longer consuming me, no longer inside me. I try to move, but I am stuck. My gaze is locked, romancing only what is visible before me. I shut my eyes for a moment and when I open them I see a golden aura shaking the ground. A swift breeze burns my lips. Then, I see him…there he is standing before me. His mouth moved and intelligent words escaped from the darkness of his throat and danced across his cheeks. He knew me now…he stared at me with a fury of knowledge locked in his fiery eyes. He understood. I had become a painting on his wall. He knew me. I was overcome with the urge to cry and I didn’t know if it was because I was stuck as a painting on a wall or if it was because he understood me, he knew me and that moved me. That relieved me. He held the key to the door of my mind, my soul, my heart. I knew now that the door was not shut and the key had not been lost. I wanted to cry, but being a painting, I could not cry. The tension clenched my soul until he reached up and gathered white threads of silk from the sky and began painting my tears for me. He knew.

He lifted his hand to the sky and I realized at that moment that I know nothing…I am what is known.

Jenna Awad

Thanks for stopping by! Have a great day!

Monsters

Some would like to know whether or not they possess the words that will irradiate malevolent hearts.

I saw them. I wasn’t sitting for very long in the shade of the lime tree when I saw them moving beneath the lake like cast shadows of moving clouds. But I knew better. There were no clouds in the sky that day. The descending sun left a burgundy stain on the horizon and it began to spread upwards like a bruise. I saw them become still for a moment, and then pound their fists against the underside of the transparent surface of the water, impatient and waiting for the night to finally emerge and unhinge the doors which kept them restrained. I’d heard about them so many times before: their malicious acts were unfettered by the sympathetic nature of the human condition and their grotesque forms emulated the ugliness of their hearts. I watched their twisting faces beneath the mossy waters, their incandescent eyes glaring and bulged. I was determined not to leave, apprehending the moment when the passing of dusk left them unbridled in the night. I was afraid. But who wouldn’t be. I was either brave or foolish. I had been warned; they earnestly implored me not to go, but I knew that I had to. I was told that even the moon, when they come out, flees behind a veil of clouds or behind rolling hills to hide from the inimical creatures.

The bruise in the sky was deepening and I felt the wind scurry past my face, seeking refuge, pulling and tugging at my hair in hopes that I would run with him. But I had to stay. Night was approaching and though the sky was blackening, I could still see them, trapped below the lake—a cult of beasts. I pulled at the grass around me and fought the urge to run away. My heart lost its zeal as one of them spotted me. His eyes narrowed in on me and his mouth widened and stretched open, devouring his eyes and nose and as he screamed at me the sky went completely black and the glass surface of the lake shattered and they reached their arms out of the lake, clawing at the damp air. Their hideous forms emerged from out of the water. Ivory bars lined inside their mouths, which were set just below their bulbous eyes, and it seemed as if no matter which way they were faced, their eyes were, somehow, always fixed on me. There were five of them and they stood taller than the trees. I knew what was going to happen next. I had been told that they take the world in their hands, clench it and grind it against the coarseness of their rage. I didn’t know what that meant.

They charged at me and I wanted to get up and run but the ground shook furiously as they came toward me and I could not find balance. I closed my eyes and felt them slam against me with a great force and their hairy hands held my eyes shut, keeping me blind. And when I was finally released from their hands, I saw that they had caused the world to somehow come alive: the atmosphere was heaving and frightening. The bleak colors of the night meshed together and wrapped tightly around my head. I, and everything around me, was swallowed by a whirlpool. I was spinning and I felt as if I were falling down a kaleidoscopic hole. After a while, the spinning stopped and the hole dumped me out and I was standing before them again. Their mouths stretched in laughter and they extended their hands to the sky and as they did, the eyes of the sky opened and drooped and its mouth gaped open. Starry teeth were falling out and shattering against the sharp blades of dry grass. Then they reached out their hands to the lime tree behind me and at that moment, the patterns on all the trees moved together like wet paint, creating an emulsion of colors, and the green of the leaves began to moan and shout whispers at me. The chirping of the birds became deep, hollow, and slow. The gentle song of the crickets was a sporadic barking, which gradually became a unison of high-pitched screeching, projected from the sky’s gaping mouth. I looked at the five of them and they grew bigger and their bodies became like Italian Cypress Trees.

I watched them rise and dance in the sky, their hideous forms, nebulous, before the backdrop of a blackened night. Then their malicious eyes locked on me and I knew I was not brave; I was foolish for coming. They slowly made their way toward me, like billowing storm clouds. Their growling was like thunder, thrusting out of the darkness and striking the tender earth. I closed my eyes and wished that the morning would come and bind them to the bottom of the lake again until the next night. I quickly got down on the ground and pounded the earth with my fists, trying desperately to arouse the morning, shouting for the sun to wake up and rise. But it was still night and they were still charging at me.

They moved closer and their eyes sank deep into their beastly faces. I was enveloped in the smell of sulfur as they reached their twitching hands out to me. I shouldn’t have come. I grabbed tightly to the lime tree behind me and just as I did this, the lime tree became one of them. I was clutched to his black, gnarled legs and before I could let go, he reached down and lifted me up. I was close to his face and the ivory bars in his mouth split open and became jagged like knives; his own face bled from their sharpness and there were thick, raised scars that aggregated the area around his mouth. I turned my gaze and saw that the rest of them were now standing before me and they all stretched their hands out toward me. Just as soon as they made this gesture, the sun burst from the horizon and seized them in his golden hands. He threw them to the ground and they burst into flames. They stood up and ran to the lake so that the fire could be let out and as the water lapped over them, their hideous forms began to burn away: the ivory bars in their mouths, the bulging eyes, their hairy, black forms were consumed by the fire and what was left of them was a completely different form; they waved their arms and their heads bobbed against the ravenous currents and the monsters became mere men. Their eyes became jewels in the sunlight and their skin scintillated with water. They reached out to me in desperation and I saw that they were drowning in the lake. Their legs became tangled in the thick moss, their lungs filled with the water, and they were being pulled beneath. I shielded my eyes until, finally, the last of their screams dissipated and I opened my eyes again, watching the bright jewels sink into the darkness.

I looked around and saw the sun smiling against the peach sky. The cirrus clouds moved beyond the hills, stretching out their hands to the poor, trembling moon in hiding. A sweet breeze undulated, carrying the aura of the sun and was damp with the soft fragrance of lime and yellow forsythia. I sat down in the shade of the lime tree and felt the warmth of the sun on my face. I have no words.

Jenna Awad
The Amaranthine Poet

…Jesus is my hero, and that is an understatement. He is my morning sun and he’s proven his truth to me again and again. I love you, Jesus. This is for you; everything I do is for you. Luke 7:36-50

If you have read anything here, you have taken a brief detour into Jenna Awad's mind!!

©theamaranthinepoet. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication without express permission by the author by any means, mechanical, electronic or otherwise is a violation of all application laws.

The Golden Myrrhmaid and the Emptied Sky

I used to be the sun but I ran away. I used to be the sun, the iridescent aura governing the day. The birds would implore me to guide them as they fly, but their beating wings would cast grisly shadows against the battered sky. The world would ask me to radiate its path, but would build its days upon hatred and wrath. So, I ran away; I jumped out from my lofty corner of the twilight sky and dove into the deep of the ocean, awaiting the next black morning when I would hear the world cry. They implored the stars to move closer and burn away the persistent night; they asked the thunder to strike the earth and give them a moment of light…but no starlit thunderstorm could smite away the darkness the way I could–and how their bulging eyes searched and their bloody hands beckoned for me to return, but I didn’t think I should. So, I stayed in the ocean and became a mermaid soaring below the violent earth within the violet sea. The sea creatures told me that the sweet scent of the sky, like myrrh, and the fragrant nectar of a burning garden constantly lingered around me. They also noticed a golden glow which poured from my flesh and burned through my eyes which would not fade–and for these reasons, the sea renamed me and I was no longer known as “The Sun”, but rather as “The Golden Myrrhmaid.”

One day, I was visited by five beautiful sirens of the sea. Their hair was like flowing ephemeral clouds and their backs were arched gracefully. Each siren was a different color–one was yellow, one red, one green, one violet, and the other, indigo. When I inquired of this they told me a secret they thought I should know. Each siren had once been a color of the rainbow; however, like me, they fled from the world and left the sky. I pressed my golden fingers against my blazing face and asked the sirens, “why?”

“Because once you ran away, the moon became pale and weary because he deeply missed you. Once he realized you were never coming back he jumped out of the sky and ran away too…and because a rainbow can only be seen behind some form of light, we had no choice but to leave the sky once the world became a permanent midnight. So, now we are all sirens–singing nostalgic songs about our friend, the sun, who ran away. Our songs beckon lost sailors whose remorseful hearts have led them astray. As they become enraptured by our sad melodic emotion, they dive into the blue to find you, but instead, drown in the spiteful ocean.”

Hearing this made me very sad, but all I could think about was the sweet sadness of the bashful moon. I never imagined he cared so much; although, I do recall how he’d discreetly stalk me behind the velvet mist of each afternoon. I shut my eyes as my overwhelming thoughts fell from my heart and crumbled into my hands like autumn leaves in the birth of December. I was The Golden Myrrhmaid now…I forsook my days as The Sun and forsook my desire to remember. I left the world because it became swollen with a storm of hatred and sin. I, being The Sun, was omniscient during the day and the malice of man made the walls of my heart become thin. I hadn’t intended to leave the world alone and destitute…but, when I tried to speak to the world, the world was deaf, and so, I became mute. Yes, it may have seemed wrong of me not to stay, but truly, the world was enveloped in its own darkness long before I went away…

I sighed deeply and when I opened my eyes again I saw a silver angel swimming toward me. His flesh was covered in deep scars but embellished with brilliant stars and his eyes smiled at me. His white wings were vast ivory clouds billowing with the currents and I began to recognize him quite soon. The silver creature gathered me into his arms and I realized that he was, indeed, the moon. Looking into his discerning eyes, my heart began to melt and I felt, at that moment, something I had never before felt. Tangled in his soul and dangling from his mouth was the wailing of the world but as he leaned in to kiss me…the burden of the wailing world ascended from his mouth and disappeared out of the sea. The darkness of the world had overwhelmed and emptied the entire sky…and yet, although we sat upon the bottom of the ocean floor, our souls were soaring high. I looked into his crescent eyes and a blazing love grew. Such an unfathomable fate…but in essence…I knew, he knew, we always knew.

Jenna Awad
The Amaranthine Poet

P.S. The rainbow in the story is an allegory of hope (I know, I am obsessed with allegories). The rainbow had to leave the sky once the only sources of light did, thus, delivering the idea that without some form of goodness/light, there can exist no form of hope for malice…or rather, hope is still in existence, but more difficult to attain since it cannot be seen; therefore–although ironically put–”pure” evil/darkness has little to no hope for a change to good, considering that darkness is, fundamentally, the absence of light. Once the sun and the moon left, the world was enveloped in its own darkness, and hope, eventually, left.

©Jenna Awad. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication without express permission by the author by any means, mechanical, electronic or otherwise is a violation of all application laws.