Paragon’s Reign

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i curse the day that Paragon’s rain was birthed onto my

endless, sun-dripping atmosphere,

tempests abound, aubergine orchids in disharmony;

how tempting is that inky cat’s golden iris when it arrests the glance of

those who wonder upon it,

but only because their peers did;

my heart shakes in refusal but the hands that rest upon my chest

press down, stilling it to an agitated serenity;

or at least that’s what my past foretells with an uncertain conviction.

i distrust newcomers simply because they refuse to let me cut

the branches that radiate from their mind;

their digits extending to attain that bewitching, flaxen orb;

i tell them that sometimes near-possibilities are whispers of false prospect;

but who am i to cut down their tree in order to avoid the cyclone?

they reflect my old seashells to perfection

only now i see how cracked my Paragon really was

does one expect the orchid to become the hushed princess in the corner?

no; she uncaringly bathes in the sun’s rays and sways to her own tune

does one expect the circle to become rough and jagged?

no; the illustration has already been set.

in truth, you have already realized your Paragon;

the windstorm ends once your definition does.