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“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” Rumi


Upon my quest for quintessence.
I was an amorist, 
positive in poetic philosophies.
Elysian and empyrean effigies,
enlightened in an ephemeral existence.
Life a fragile garland 
festooned with a frangipani fragrance,
meandered in meadows of melodies,
a mouthpiece to a frivolous flute

but gone are lucent lusory lullabies.

I turned to the ballad of birds.
Dulcet desires dreamed of diamond drops,
dulcifluous, dulciloquent and diaphanous.
Delusions led to an interpretation of illicit illusions.
I became a metaphor for afflicted adjectives.
Mimesis mind became brittle and barren,
aphonic and amort - a crestfallen conscious. 
A wild wallflower in an orchard of opal orchids,
slowly decomposing - in silent semblance

clocks won't stop for sojourners of the soul..

I searched for footprints left behind,
upon porcelain seraphic shores,
but knavish kismet lay lamenting,
disconsolate upon a distant island,
manifesting murmurations of a
maleficent maelstrom monsoon.

My life was once a
razzmatazz of reflections 
gold, ivory and bronze,
but now silver sighs slither,
releasing a soft susurrus,
as once sapphire sylphlike skies are
now vermillion and violet visions.

Haematic horizons close the gates to heaven,
yet in my ruins, I know there is fortune,
as I polish my mirror of misfortune,
hoping it glows in canorous colours.

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