Angel of Arctic Moonrise
This poem is a special devotion for my mother, who has always been a healing sun for these wintry eyes. Mumma, you're my hope, my strength, my magic and my heartbeat. I'll always find my fairy-lights in your soul, as you're my home, where this child will always return after playing with solemn sunsets. Happy birthday to you..
"Mum,
you are a barbie q u e e n,
for this fruity fairy,
as we t r a c e watermelon skies,
fluttering around the k i w i moon,
concocting i c y peach elixirs
from shiny shawls of
cashmere l u n a r beams"
As we both snorkel with
crystal fins of clarity,
in turquoise seas
of the marine edens,
waving to the
watercolor spirits of
dusky nymphs,
our souls sing
in the ocean's heart,
encasing solemn sighs
in conch shells,
that got lost within
sirens of aquamarine.
Evermore, liberated
beyond the haze
of sepia gulfs
that chained us,
beneath ~
timeless tapestries,
we trail footprints
of cherished lilies
in mauve hail,
falling upon
sandy shorelines.
I'm a baby blossom,
resting upon
emerald sepals,
of her crimson elegance;
my cherry lips
spin seafoam spells,
for you ~
my red diamond swan,
flying with
pistachio feathers.
Can you hear
my heartbeats,
throbbing beneath
the pillow of pink roses,
sewn with the
fragrance of your
pearly ardour, mumma?
I'm a daughter
of an Angel,
whose cape of
arctic moonrise,
swathes every
aching eye,
with milky light
of cosmic faith.
She spreads a carpet
of aliferous Auroras,
allowing my tears
to dance on
its feathery
peacock wings.
She's the lifeline
of constellations,
which twinkle like
kins of the
wayfinder's galaxy.
She's more than a
bejeweled brushstroke
of Van Gogh,
ribboned with
strawberry stars,
smeared with
fairy-glow of divinity.
Inhaling comets
of creamy compassion,
she's a warrior
with dahlia sword,
melting every
jade eye's
evil aroma,
to buttery flakes
of symphonic soothe.
I no longer search
for oceanic archangels,
for I've found my
healing home,
in her sunflower dreams.
She's the vanilla warmth
for the aching
Himalayan snow,
a glare of
peaceful amulets
for shivering life,
and the sweetest
melody of
sugarplum sonatas;
mumma,
you are my seventh heaven.
Carving the saga,
of a celestial Queen and
her princess,
eclectic epitaphs will
harmonize in
ethereal hymns
of rhapsody,
knitted by a
cosmic mother
for her raspberry sapling.
You'll always be
that last zephyr
of cathartic mantras,
which will envelop
my heartbeats
in hydrangea hues.
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2024
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