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Poem
As the midnight
  sun cries sweet honey,  
the mourning moon
 croons caramelized deceit,  
like toffee-speckled leaves,  
whistling bewitching myths,  
seducing silenced silhouettes,  
engrossed in tangerine temptations,  
and mundane melodies 
  of tethered time.

But are we not lost wanderers,  
knitting forbidden tales of life;  
an undone work of mystical art,  
transcribed in incoherent dialects;  
perfectly scarred and bruised,  
like wounded warriors on the quest  
for picturesque perspectives,  
we waltz through an endless realm,  
stuck in a translucent loop  
of daisy chains and  
dahlia links in lilac lace,  
counting crestfallen  
jewels of Lunar grace,  
thirsting for deep russet harvests,  
to feed the drained void  
in vain ignorance,  
unaware of the shallow seeds,  
emanating hypnotic hypocrisy.  
For we are, mere echoes of  
cosmic frequencies,  
orchestrated to compose  
sanguine serenades,  
by the divine virtuoso  
and angels of utopia.

And I question the  
Goddess of the twilight pearl~  
what will the stars sing of us,  
when constellations crack  
and bleed into eclipsed  
rivers of faded galaxies?  
Are we not all sinners,  
pretending to play wise,  
spoken from a past  that 
knew paper butterflies,  
so fake that it deserves  
a Nobel Prize,  
for stealing sanity  
and leaving us paralyzed,  
while we are  
suppressing passion,  
we can barely recognize,  
rising to right the 
wrongs to neutralize.  
Aren’t we human?  
We break and bleed, 
pleading through pain,  
to pacify angst.  
Are we not tenants within 
temporary tranquility?  
Engrossed in timeless truth,  
revealed from the halcyon castle,  
with saffron scriptures,  
even the blind can read?  

I ponder, would we still thrive  
amongst remnants  
embalmed in jinxed jasmines,  
amidst roses, so radiant and divine?
I know not what I sow,  
across forlorn fields,  
with herbs of fruitful weeds,  
to attain profound peace,  
while this heart still is  
searching for perfumed  
petals flickering serenity.  
As life here on earth,  
is a lavender landscape,  
designed with transformative tulips,  
twirling in tune to the  
ephemeral anthems of exotic existence.

So what are we but caged dreamers,  
singing songs of begonia bliss,  
into the sombre breeze,  
like fragmented figurines,  
sculpted from galactic granules,  
soaring above virgin vines,  
stretching beyond skies  
gliding with luminous lies.  

Perhaps we are an emerald aftermath  
of an immutable saga,  
sewn with silver sinned dust,  
shimmering in ashes and bones,  
like contoured skeletons,  
blanketed in balanced duality;  
stainless wings of ivory doves,  
water and air merged  
in tumultuous depths,  
strumming violin visions,  
from bronze strings of  
unwavering faith and eternal light.
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