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Can blackwater lilies 
sing forth sonnets 
of daylight and 
unsung those 
cacophonous notes 
of omen, which 
rhymed with 
sombre elixir 
of spruce rivulets and 
veiled your crimson 
touch of life, 
in eons of unforgivable 
death? 

Those haunting floods 
of heinous moth-ringed 
August still carve my 
lungs with an eerie 
monsoon petrichor, 
when the sundial 
reversed its succulent 
sentimental rhymes 
and plagued meteors of
pincushion silence 
shattered along the
mangroves, fenced with 
sulfuric sunflower rays. 

I have traversed through
bioluminescent bays 
of morose coasts, 
questing for nefarious 
nimbus where violent
waves muted my 
inked inquests and 
pierced through 
translucent membranes 
of wrinkled realities. 

Planting caskets of 
kohl-carnations in 
cushioned opal flowerbeds 
and burying my 
mascara in granite
gravestones where 
rhetoric ravenous 
legacies ruptured 
every cotyledon of 
love and light, 
I bleed upon glossy
pearlescent feathers 
of each killed 
nightingale who 
sacrificed its 
versatile voice 
to save you from the 
abode's obsidian rage. 

Now these sherbet buds 
have no parental twigs, 
nor any throne 
of golden anchor, 
to protect them from 
envious nightglows 
and cold cadence of frost. 

Dear father, 
the lens of life 
is now foggy 
and opaque, 
and your 
symmetric skies 
are but a cluster of 
miniscule macabre
phrases, laced 
with miming reapers. 
Hypothesis of 
existence has 
finally feasted upon 
my morose metaphors, 
as now no 
serendipitous sun 
can replace 
your warmth. 
Every permeable 
memory is a 
misspelled melody, 
hanging in these 
twilight cobwebs 
of ivory threads,
yearning for 
the last leaf 
to finally fall. 

No mathematical 
expression 
can equate to 
your unfathomable 
absence neither 
any tangerine tangent 
can bridge the 
gap of dissected 
valleys between 
the hell and the heaven. 

Fate is yet, 
an undefined misery, 
for, I feel,
this lethal luna 
would never prevent 
its jealousy
from entwining 
in moontstruck haze
of melancholy 
and it will forever
melt in my essence 
as a traumatizing 
tremor. 

Papa,
What dialect 
will I decipher 
to my daughter 
when time is 
no longer her 
amiable fluer and 
she's able to 
connect those 
malignant dots
of destiny, 
when her eyes 
will linger through 
my soul, searching 
for an opalescent oasis, 
will she be lost 
forever in the 
silicon storms 
emerging in 
my heart's desert? 

~ "Is life nothing but an eclipsed end 
           of fervent beliefs, mocking the dead?"
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