Email Poem

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Poem
"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."~ Rumi

Dear Diary,

I’m a hopeless romantic, 
a sentimental sonnet
  scribbled from the 
  silent heartstrings 
of a mysterious muse. 
Forgive me for 
   another redundant prose; 
Cupid too despised 
   my last love-sick letter 
 enveloped in lavender lipstick, 
written with 
    lethargic i n k..

Although I’m 
  still an unheard verse, 
a 
  poetic paradox 
  etched across 
  thin lines of 
mauve lunar lace, 
drifting amongst 
   metered clichés 
flagged as 
  an unrhymed riddle, 
rafting along 
   rippling regrets, 
woven with 
orchid oxymorons.

But it all started 
   with a blank canvas 
when the cruel fangs 
  of 
 monsoon monsters 
drenched paper 
    roses within, 
leaving a 
  forlorn field 
of black thorns 
and 
blood-stained thistles.

I remember 
  musky taste 
  of vanilla rain 
while I unfurled 
   my fragile fingers, 
caressing cold 
dandelion clouds~
questioning the 
  moon in melancholic tunes. 
What is truth 
  but a faceless tarp? 
Is life but a breathing 
 lie for sapphire stars 
  sleeping amidst 
the rising sun? 
Are we mere dreamers 
 living a myth scripted 
   as fantasies untold?

It is through confusion 
  that we find 
 constellations of clarity~
to rise above 
shackling gravity, 
this opalescent orb 
 is oblivious to the magic 
   flowing as madness, 
labelling 
  poignant pigments 
    in my palette,
drawn from the 
   tunnels of thin veins,
as thick-skinned 
  sagas of a succubus 
floating across 
  Lilith’s lethal lake 
  of rustic reflections.

Maybe we are 
  mere poets weaving hope 
amidst meaningless scribes, 
veiling our vision from 
seeing beyond 
  scribbles soaring 
    along hazy horizons.

Yet, I tremble at 
  tulip thoughts 
of dahlia doodles, 
for your ivory garden 
 is my weakness and strength, 
pulling violin vines 
   of my ebony soul 
to orchestrate an 
   opera that serenades 
  sunflower symphonies 
  composed to cleanse 
  foggy mists, 
blindfolding icy sighs 
  within fiery emerald eyes.

If this were to be 
   my final rune 
purging upon pages 
  hanging like silver lanterns 
  in your ceramic cerulean, 
remember me, 
the mistress 
  of bleeding ballads, 
healing from 
   swollen syllables 
    of fading sunsets.

Sincerely, 
a lost weaver 
    of lyrical woes…
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