Indigo

I tend to go all indigo at this time of the year,
not for the laughs, and not for the seasonal tears,
I just go this funky shade of blue; no reason, no tears, no season, no fears . . . no.
And once again,
No
.
It’s a seasonal dysfunction in need of correction,
a part of my life in need of direction,
in need of some indigo inflection and words that will never rhyme no matter what I do.
And I do.
Black. Obsidian. Shaft. Last.
Map of nowhere that I will ever be found.
It’s a yuletide cave of sorts; one that’s long, dark and godforsaken for seasonal reasons that will forever elude me.
Indigo . . .
is simply bluer than blue
Like Me.
Merry Me.
Merry, merry, me, where intricacies of the heart are a silent but beautiful holiday accident   . . .

~m

4 thoughts on “Indigo

  1. I have had those years. I try to find small moments with friends to focus on. It’s lovely to read your writing again. May you find peace and some small joys this wintery dark season.

  2. “where intricacies of the heart are a silent but beautiful holiday accident . . .”

    The beauty about reading your lines Mr Murphy, is that no matter what you write about, you manage to sprinkle these gems of brilliant perfection for us lucky readers to find.

    Thank you.

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