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Poem
O August, I feel subtle scents
of dandelion days melting,
like spring falls of delirious diamonds,
while memories of sentimental sapphires
flow amidst clouds of colorblind cruelty,
revealing how butterflies
from the temple of fragmented armors
abandoned my spirit
at the altar of Ares~
adorned with crushed wings.

Tonight, as the sky mirrors rivulets
rippling with remnants of my
beloved’s violet garden,
where wisterias withered away
into winds of wretchedness,
I remember how our love waned
beneath the lilac-scented lace
of the lavender moon,
as stars veiled their
sparkling essence,
burning hope into redundant rhymes~
to render my silhouette in
shimmering shades of ashes and dust,
reverberating with the
rose-soaked ruins of a broken romance.

I am a breathing corpse,
drifting in clandestine chaos,
dreaming in distorted dialogues,
teetering on the verge of
cynical compositions,
lost in toxic flames of translated trauma.
My intuition makes no mistakes,
but my anxiety is a trained liar,
consistently leading me
into a glowing loop of misleading mantras.
There, I serenade infernal tales
to the diabolical rhythm of the violin,
orchestrated by the Devil
in hellish harmony,
while my heart longs for a
rebirth of an everlasting sunrise,
curated in classical cadence,
to soothe the satanic scrutinies
crawling through these veins, 
in ill-omened accents.

Yet I wonder, as the air
     and mist intertwine
like tender tendrils dancing
under tulip twilight,
will the cosmos unravel a lyrical lawn
of perennial promises,
engrossed in frankincense elixirs?
Can jewels of midnight
release paranoid puppeteers~
manipulating the chaos within
my cluttered consciousness?
Or am I condemned to sing forever,
sentenced to a life of mundane mania?
For I need a melody to synchronize
vindictive voices obscuring my vision.

O dahlia rain of sleepless monsoon,
but to forget your soulless symphony,
I am now drenched
in silence and tears,
in need of a muse to paint this pain
into pacifying prose.
I see no beauty in my brokenness;
I can’t feel the petrichor,
the warmth of rainbows
wrapped in clovers of clemency…
Perhaps I am blind,
and my empathy has long been dead,
but why am I still wanting to feel
lunar grace on lonely nights?

Happiness is a mythical
synonym for treachery,
tattooed across my golden skin;
a mockery of lemongrass love,
as water lilies in my lake of longing weep.

So I conclude this in metaphors of magic,
written in syllables of splintered serenity,
wishing you would rewrite healing~
into the haze of fleeting nirvana.
As you read these words,
remember, I am not a poet,
but a griever, bleeding odes to
the sanity I once knew.
I am now an unmetered cliché,
crying for peace amidst bruised ballads,
woven into the blank pages of tomorrow.
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