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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required When alabaster twilights rain upon celestial roses, with tear-soaked trinkets of ancient aromas ~ I wear their amaranth scents upon acrylic wrists, and tie my terracotta threads of twinkling trust with those topaz ribbons of reminiscent tales, slowly floating in an opal olive fog ~ where a bouquet of bones decorates my heart-shaped coffin and this hoaxed bride, veiled in oleander organza, unleashes a tryst of vows, quivering in vines ~ like an esoteric bane for those heinous hues of the elysian moonrise. Beneath this champagne chandelier, hanging with a million crimson crescents ~ dare not ensnare this raven-feathered maiden, who knows not the mellifluous masquerade of backstabbing mantras; her initials are condensed from the ink and blood ~ of those moon-winged butterflies, enslaved in raspberry chains, and she inhales shrieking ashes of ivory ~ pirouetting frivolously, like the last leaf of vengeance, in a blinding black hole of piercing petals, as her fingertips shiver and speak with scentless braille stars ~ stretching across those silver-smitten pillow skies, that once remembered her name... Here, I quench my quiescence of thirst, with pigmented poisons of thy paper paradise ~ slaying the unspoken, with those telepathic swords of carbon-glazed cloudbursts, where, words remain louder than the sharpest shrapnel of soul ~ and you reep the sins smoking in the surface of kohl incensed lakes... I'm the quaking time of Thor ~ his titanium armour, a grenade-gold inferno ~ ignited from the nemesis of handwritten au revoir, woven with onyx silhouettes of those, who once stitched scars in the tapestry of treason. But, can this macabre downpour ~ drench me in laments of liquid landslides, where destiny slithers in spine and secrets of scrutiny no longer remain as a satanic dagger in my spirit? perhaps, this poem is my shrine ~ and in the nebulous horizon, my chrysalis crown rests... echoing wicked whispers of eclipsed emeralds and obsidian oxymorons ~ so hear me in between, those translucent splashes of scarlet storms and skeletal silence, when I'm swallowed by the sun, as his lost stygian shadow... tasting the liquefied tremors of Bronté tunes ~ bleeding l i g h t e n i n g in vivacious thunderstorms, where harps hyphenate magnetic melancholy ~ and I m e l t in oil-painted runes of regrets...
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