Palette of Picturesque Pigment

Her persona is like a portrait of picturesque perfection, embalmed in bittersweet lavender, unseen within depths of tributaries of elixir. If only they knew the chaos that flows, constrained in a confined gallery of grief. Not everyone is a master painter. Some brush with brutal bruised strokes, provoking timeless streams of implicit secrets, from crimson stains on ivory satin, where scents of juniper evoke phases of unpredicted phenomenons, oblivious to chronicles of forsaken tales, which hide beneath barriers, many have struggled to venture within. But there is an artist with a pastel on his palette, that can correct her disfigured pigment. He holds cryptic calligraphic engravings, veiled behind the inflamed chamber of her heart. He understands that her spirit drowns when winds are forceful. How her delicateness has been sleeping on withered roses, wilted by cruelest rays of a summer mourning morning star, Where bedtime stories were puppeteered by hurricanes feeding on fenceless vulnerabilities. yet when sleepless silence sings, it can disturb in reverberating heavy metal screams. So she echoes her trauma through hurtful hisses, poisoning with vicious venom. Her aura alters in acrimonious attitudes from serene sunshine to furious gales. She remains without a grip on untamable seasons of unholy torture, Only he knows the poem in her eyes is the last train home, so he calms her tempest temperament, enabling hidden rainbows in her mind to reappear. He is a soothing gemini night-flower, even with outcries of midnight thunder, his patience resembles raining jasmine water, purifying her murky waters, into a crystallised milky-way of kyanite desires, guiding her to swirl and swoon into whirlwinds of closure.