POETRY – GROWTH

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They say purple was born
from crushed murex shells—
a thousand lives
for a single thread
worthy of gods.

It was never meant for the ordinary.
Worn by emperors,
draped on deities,
spoken only in whispers
or prayers.

But you—
you carry it quiet
in the marrow,
like something ancient remembered
not with words,
but with ache.

Growth, in purple,
is not soft.
It is ceremonial.
A coronation no one sees—
a crown of silence,
not gold.

It is the color of trials,
of nights that stretch too long
and still end in morning.
Of scars turned sacred
and stories no longer told
for approval.

You are not blooming.
You are being
enthroned.

In every slow step,
every time you chose stillness
over spectacle,
you stitched yourself
in the lineage
of the violet divine.

And when you sit now,
not reaching—
just radiating—
it is not peace you’ve found,
but power
disguised as peace.

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This piece was written for Eugi’s Moonwashed Weekly Prompts and Weekly Prompts Wednesday