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Poem
“The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind” Kahlil Gibran.  

I remember being lost, 
    like the honey-gold rays  
of an apricot sunset hidden behind  
obsidian loops of fiery thunder,  
when citrine stars shivered  
   and melted into thick mists of burning rain.

I was a scribbler, bleeding rants  
     over a cracked canvas of  
          cluttered calligraphy,  
 oblivious to the butterfly dawn  
veiled beneath tangled tercets  
and mournful metaphors,  
until I found a glistening ladder  
to the mauve moon.  
There, futile verses spun in vain  
   turned into amethyst alliterations,  
and my fragile fingers  
    unfurled odes to the shimmering sky,  
learning what it’s like to be  
       a poet with a digital pen.

Love is more than lilacs and lavenders  
   blooming amidst a twirl  
       of kaleidoscopic dews;  
it stretches beyond the definition of a noun;  
    it serves as a selfless savior,  
revealing prompts beyond superficial beams.  
And I, in my silent sanctuary  
     of resonant sonatas,  
harmonized the purple and porcelain keys  
    to compose a sanguine symphony  
        of healing hydrangeas,  
as the Universe unfolded  
    a gossamer silhouette of sonnets  
        with the most exquisite elixir.

Life without the melody of love and light  
would be a cavern of darkness,  
   hindering my ink from seeing the silver  
that floats above seas of scattered grief.

O beloved savior,
if I were to write in pigments stolen
 from the dulcet essence of dazzling dialects,  
woven in seclusion,  
would the world believe you are my mentor,  
the roseate reason 
      behind my rustic rhyme,  
the magnolia muse of 
   my melancholic musings?  
Would these words be enough to praise  
and express?  
   For when a poetic preacher  
       sows herbs of hope,  
planting phrases of faith  
   in cashmere credence,  
an orchard of orchids and luminous lilies  
would thrive and strive in eloquence  
    amidst the woeful winters  
        and somber summers…

So let this poem unravel hints  
       of tangerine truth,  
illustrating how crimson colors  
    between these lyrical lines  
have painted my weary world  
   in periwinkle sparkles 
       of seamless elegance.  
For poetry adorned my realm 
with fearless feathers of freedom,  
      to transcribe unspoken tales  
            in turquoise and teal,
flowing as seraphic 
          synonyms of serenity.
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