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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required When my inkless isles become drenched with icy wintergreen embers of apologetic auroras ~ and l i f e loses its lyrics in lilith's labyrinth, this soul orchestrating in origami riddles unfurls a cerise sanctuary ~ where the calligraphic signatures of serenity, no longer lurk in my hand-sketched alphabets... Hunted by l i g h t and sheltered by demons, can a strawberry sapling blossom into a bioluminescent beacon, bleached by beliefs ~ along barnacles that hide cardamom clusters in the canopy of confused clairvoyance? Why do I feel paralysed as those spectral lilies, shapeshifting in solemn shark songs, when the sorceress in me should have been paragliding with p a i n, within a parachute of pearls, perfumed with sun-dappled patience~ above thistle-stitched sigh of skin-thin pines...? If sadness were a spirit ~ she would be exhaling a galaxy of roses from her s o f t, blood-swirling lungs, emanating metaphors, misinterpreted by fate... I still ponder, if the fangs of goblin-verses have gnawed upon my ginger-glazed horizons~ as the twinkling veil between faith and foe has been stained with satanic swan-tears... and I remain untouched, somewhere ~ like a scent lingering in buds of skeletal silence, surfing me away, from my malevolent muse... "O' deities of life, who breathed me as a secret, I'm a massacre of poetry, my lily wings laid bare ~ I wouldn't pray to vanish from the womb, which cradled me in wrinkled rainbow croons ~ but maybe, if the rotten roots of repenting fate could be reincarnated as a kintsugi pantoum, I'd reverse those wisteria waves of seconds, that surfed my fickle footprints offshore ~ to remorseful realms without ripened rispettos... sometimes, I wish that I had never swallowed any vindictive wanderlust of the first sunshine which fell upon my infant star ~ for, suffocating in sins of the seven seas, I have become a grave for swarovski dahlias, ruffled across lethal jasmine-soaked sunsets..." from the drizzling flames of fury Belladonna butterflies b u r s t ~ as feral rose filaments grieve in celtic roars, upon ivory pedestal of nightshade champagnes where, I'm a daughter of the snake moon ~ my scales shimmering in tea-lime territories marked with venomous emerald-golds, which define the thunderous tunes of Bronte, as lightning streaks of cyanide c r a s h against the mosaic chariot of Zeus...
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