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For the queen of a eucalyptus garden, sat high above,

Do you think of yourself as heather that you must be so distant? Is it for fear that you are in this state, or is it an aftereffect of the view? An offering of a different one; would that please you? Or will it only be an added insult?

I only wish for these red carnations to fade, so I may look upon you without seeing you wreathed in them for they are only a product of my own mind. Even if the red is beautiful against you – and how I long to see it blossom in your hair – may I learn of such beauty one day – and may you let it be me who is witness to it first – it is but a distorted reality that is unjust. Undeserving.

It must be sinful to feel that way for you who is not only mine, but the fleur de lys of our people. Do you know how much you invoke with your presence? With your words and the way you move? How much can you do before the world offers itself to you at your feet, begging for the sweet release from the throes of longing they suffer. It is as if you possess all that one lacks and needs for. Not in a way of cruelty, but in the way that you thread Queen Anne's Lace around your arms and fingers with nothing more than a light touch, and the form of allspice flowers that is left wherever you step.

And is that not why when you come they whisper 'Angelica'? You do not hear it but it is there for you are revered. Not for your throne but your mercy. For the love of your people that is returned.

And I feel more than just that simple emotion! It causes whispers of much more that have never come near you but I am willing to let them. In fact my heart strains to tell them to you but not here. Not in ink. Let me tell them to you when one day we are close and I am allowed nearer than any other. Only then will you ever know the secrets of a room with words burnt. May that day come, be it soon or late for it will be divine if it comes at all. Just as an angel is divine whether it seen in passing or full, and just as you are divine no matter how you are beheld.

So only when the anemones in my garden wither in the same way that the roses of shades blue have, and when ambrosia blooms in their place, will my mouth be able to let go of these words within my throat and lungs. I am choking even now on them, and they take the form of absinth.

I know not more of what to write so may I speak more of you? Of how both the sun and moon cannot compete with you? Of the stars that do not compare to your lustre? Your lux far outshines them all without even an attempt. When upon dark nights I find myself walking in the woods, once again I find myself captured in thought of you with love in a mist that only ends with me more lost than before.

It is a golden chain tree whose shade shelters you, but even that cannot hide the alyssum embroidered on your sleeves. There is more that does go hidden and I wish to come upon it. Curiosity drives me and so do the azaleas in my own collar. What will there be? Do you know? Or does it lie in a place even you cannot see? Though even then, surely you must be familiar with the scent of amaryllis? So I hope you do not find that my tulips distract. I hope even further, with an utter dread and desire that is light but heavier than any weight upon this world, that there are white clovers collected upon your lap.

– and Beloved queen, you will not be holding me averse if I present you with viscaria upon the moment we once again meet, will you?

-Karias Blerster for Erga Kenesis Di Raskreia

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