Email Poem

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Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem

I'm an enlightened 
equinox, strolling in
faded universe, 
dreaming poetry in
susurrus serenades 
of rustling 
ruby-leaves which
whisper cool 
beamish hues
to my autumnal-
quartz heart, 
when the nucleus 
of unborn flowers, 
wishes for a 
meditative 
musing amidst 
this mocha 
season of 
transforming 
dialects. 

But, why do I 
ricochet as a 
metallic sonder in 
this diamond decade, 
is today's forlorn fall 
a resurfacing 
darkness that's 
restricting my 
dewy palms from 
bleeding claret 
streaks of emotional 
efflorescence? 
What if this 
woollen russet-scarf 
is an emerald 
seraphine noose 
for my smoked 
existence? 

I dream of poetry 
as a maple moonbow, 
where, I'm the glare
of ageless stardust, 
scattering mulberry 
mizzle of healing
hymns and splashing 
rose-gold mists 
across those 
pastel phosphenes 
of fated dolence;
trying to unlock time's
ebony chambers, 
sequined with 
ebbulient gems. 

But, only if every 
mercuric wing of 
heaven were as 
distilled as the 
brightest loyal feather
of liquefied light, 
would I still find 
myself erasing own name 
from the galactic ruins, 
written as a 
nebulous naivety of 
victimised hearts? 

I dream of poetry, 
as a bioluminescent 
throne bejeweled 
with aqua-florets,  
floating on cyan tides 
like a cream-blue pearl, 
swinging in sun-struck 
embrace as tuscan rays 
kiss the lustre of 
sea-green marmoris. 

Albeit my wails, 
O hibernated watercolours, 
why did you leave 
the cashmere canvas 
of my dreary jungles 
and blanket me in 
butterfly-stars of 
lemon-yesteryears,
where my intuition 
echoes beneath the 
opal anthem of 
sakura-metaphors, 
spiralling in silence 
of sea-maiden's soul? 

I wonder if, 
I'm an earthling ash, 
planting flowers as 
irenic trouvailles across 
maroon meadows,
when skeletal skies sail 
in the onyx omen of 
scattered fossils, 
above my calligraphic 
dreams of graceful 
poesy and juxtaposition 
of life stares like a 
blood-cloaked scarecrow, 
below peridot seas. 

Perhaps, smiles of
bougainvillea too 
have plastered 
symphonies and 
broken secrets, 
which they exhale
in their final 
rufescent rupture. 
I'm just a lonely 
sequoia tree, 
draped in 
honeysuckle hiatus, 
having no 
fervent faith as 
my dulcet ozone 
has depleted into 
granules of 
grieving gulfs, 
and I have clasped 
hollow hues 
of helium in the 
labyrinth of 
shallow lungs, 
so that teal thistles  
don't gravitate 
me into the 
eclipsed casket, 
dividing divine 
intervention within 
fractions of 
fractured dawns.
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