Purple Butterflies

A woman dressed with dirty attire asked,” What is beyond that which we believe is ourselves?” No one listened because few observe those who do not sparkle. So, the woman in her own disbelief thought that it was her mission to make them understand that which was beyond their reach, so she began to dress with extravagant clothes portraying that which impresses the masses. Suddenly in the vast ocean of perception after gaining universal attention, a miracle occurred. Utopia touched her, and whatever she once wanted to justify and portray became memory. Reality evaporated as fast as it came to her, and so she understood that everything she had once thought was no more, and so as an eternal process of renewal she painted the gran narrative of time:

The sense of completeness, 
the radical wholeness, 
bangs at your numerous doors 
that like butterflies infests 
your sense of fulfillment; 
coming 
from not knowing 
where to go,
reaching 
toward the boundless 
portrait of purple eternity. 

Who is at your door?
Wholeness cannot be grasped
by mortal sin,
so who is the sinner
if there is no evil?

Open the door,
let the butterflies
cleanse your memories
of attachment,
let those butterflies
fly into the boundless,
so you can see
that which lies
beyond yourself. 

The woman spoke no more, and in that silence an example was set. It was in the bed of death where the fruits of temptation became something more than a guide to sin. It was in death where she found that utopia does not exist if one does not understand the art of living in peace. Shall she now, in the vastness of purple eternity find the skies painting magical butterflies, rest in peace.

I'm so tired 
of trying to explain 
the inner workings 
of reality 
that I have decided 
to speak no more: 
Not to the people 
but to the birds, 
flowers and snow. 

Not to the shadows
but to the rainbows
rays and windows.

Not to the closed
but to the exposed
diamonds and souls.

Not to the fouls
but to the mountains
raining and singing:
Alleluia!