Experimenting with colour and visuals gave me this

[dyingflame]

Violent heather orchestrates
the harp strings brilliant:
stinging plumps of plucked-up pillows.

Soprano buds huddle round ponds
nest-tilling the tarlike soil,
roaming the rain-less plains.
still their roots break craggy rock

I love to stand there every night
when I'm awake at eleven's rise-
with a full moon behind,
above me yawning
with teeth that look by stars impaled.

There is a stripe of the kind sun's flower
which with each naked tree I seem to see
glaring down in the mirror-winds and earth.

Moonshine aimed in precision,
to the target that barely lives-
the small, frail and painted craft,
braving waves- the stars old key
on the northern sweeping sea.

[Triskele]

it is interesting that you made this poem from a visual inspiration, because to me, when i read it i hear it rather than see it, what with the "braving waves" and the "soprano buddies"

[dyingflame]

thanks for your comment and I agree with you that those phrases you mentioned to bring sound images to mind. I merely said i was experimenting with visuals which gave me this poem, not that it is visual in entirety :) I edited a bit now so you can read it again and see if you still get the same feeling.

btw the title is NIght's Violet Cases

[ktd222]

Dyingflame,

I think when you edit you should keep an original posted as well, so we readers can see how the poem is evolving.

[dyingflame]

yeah you're very right ... although in this case the editing was limited to the changing of 3 or 4 words only... still you're right, I should do that even for my own sake I think. I will follow your advice
thanks

[dyingflame]

Those tiny spines on the stinging nettles
are really deadly weapons
injected with passion-
flowering just for us, to lure us fragrantly
into their elaborate blights.

The strange weed-looking wig plants,
in bluish livid-blanketing foreheads of ice,
are really shrouding needles
which nestle to pounce
with purgatorial poisons.

When tendrils flow like fingers, puffed up,
bloated after years wrapped in soft waters-
the touch of your nails their brittle voices tips
and breaks their steely engraved flowers.

And you know it's all right
to go for a day in the countryside
and see trees embrace the clayish clouds
that toll from midnight's weightless sounds:

You're sure that nature's shell
casts spells of protection harmony
and that death is only the antithesis of it-
it's darkest enemy, demonized.