The Blue Whisperers

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(Photo by Joel Filipe on Unsplash)

They never dissipate in the silvery melody, nor drown out in cacophonous dissonance.

Never do they thaw away in the aureate sunbeam, nor fade into the crepuscular gloom.

 

Searing Inferno with the galloping flames graze them not, undefiled they remain in the hellish ferocity.

       

Raining fire dare not shower its wrath, nor do the icy embrace freeze them numb.

Hovering like a nebulous pall, not too near, yet not as far, they are the guises of invisibly visible blues.

             

Amorphous and nebulous, weightless they feel, yet burdened by the splendor of solitude.

Like a cobweb spun from crispy yarn, dyed in the bluish twilight, crisscrossing the wavy, shimmering incantations,

the glassy teardrops trapped inside bring a salty tang of the warm sea breeze.

 

Unbounded, hazy, they seem to the bare inner eye as subtle blends of blues and purples, their rapturous ecstasy heard as muffled whispers, 

sudden epiphanies to a half-empty soul, draining and leaching into oblivion.

 

They are the ‘blue whisperers’, the inescapable notes of woe, unseen, unbidden, artful seductresses, from the dark voids of the back of beyond.

 

In the green vales and mystic dells, where a distant skylark trill dithyrambic odes,

when the solemn dun twilight cast tranquil grey dapples, 

that caper to the mellow strains of the breeze,

they lurk in the mournful blue shade of simpering aspens,

trembling leaves of which coquet with the lusty gusts of a sultry summer.    

 

On misty azure mornings, they dawdle over sullen, sleepy rivers and placid lakes,

where all the leaden grief from the heavens above,

 pour into the veins of the earth as rivulets of ashen-shrouded ember from the hearth.                                        

                 

Soaking up the plaintive sighs of the snowbird,

they snuggle up to the canary yellow dawn,

 subtly darning a wispy bluish-lilac on the distant horizon, 

elegiac laments of eons, petrified as passionate lilac gloom in the flaming Baltic amber.

 

 

Great dissemblers of shade, callous illusionists in disguise, 

damsels, bleeding hues of blue as they whirl around,

tinting monotone indigo on the spring canvas,

crystallizing the dreams of angels in  static sapphire,

tainting the hearts brimmed with honeydew in chalices of cyan,

ensnaring glints of desire in splintered moonstone,

they whisper in tones of blue in a hushed voice,

dissonant echoes of which weave an eerie silence, a hollow tranquil,  bare bleakness, and cold emptiness,

in the guise of bewitching enchantresses.

They are the ‘blue whisperers’ from the back of beyond.

 

 

 

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