Blue Jade
Shivering shimmers of scars passed out of my scarlet, scarred past. My ginger demons engulfed the fermented pain as I watched my regal orchid—the fussiest, sacred damsel who jitterbugs as an exiled seraph. Her candlelight sillage serenades the subtle feel of my leaping breath. Her funnel eyes race the basil sky, cutting through evaporated lightning in the caves of a fuming volcano. I feel a brush of her finger through my damp, curly hair—I wished. Let her imagination fuel up my raven-veiled vision lost in the betrayal of a saffron eclipse.
Days when I'm lost to the swings of the wind, she abandons my wings. And nights when the rosemary fog finds me unseen, she nestles in them. This illusion is an assembly of unanswered pleas, laid in the chapel of legitimate temptations.
Oh! My exalted camellia: do your feet need worshipping? Should my dreamy eyes dare stare at your consuming touch? Would you bind me if I stayed? Would she blind me if I lost my grip?
No screams in the shadows of my anguish, no struggle in the streams of stinging, singing sorrows. But in my eleutheromania, I see her—hidden in a distorted realm, paddled with a haunting desire to consume me. I have no control over these segmented delusions; they draw me to the ceilings of doom, and I'm thrown into a hallucinated and repetitive retort, flashing through the turmeric storms of brokenness.
I am now an epitaph—a rotten residual with no vestige. My tears have been named Stygian, entangled in melancholia, where my limerence left me on the effluvium shores of the Mediterranean.
In this slumber hymn of querulous twinge, I am an aching dirge, set to lament in a barren dysphoria. The chants of her sadness led me to the stable of concentrated bleeding. I have made a convenient covenant with the stars that sneak into my ember room. I exchanged my ruby mist for a broken chandelier, channeled through the enchanted prison of an anaemic concoction.
That angst! that pang, is the flow of River Niger grief when my lover’s hands refuse to touch me. I made her the cynosure of my existence. I called her amaranthine and crowned her with beryl. I saw her even when my eyes were closed. She stayed, like the clouds, even when it rains.
Now, in this temple of my counterfeiting self, I twirl in the belly of a wounded beast, ready to flag my healing as I chase the destiny of faded loss, detaining me in a void where the fate of my smile never sees the golden moon. Here, I lay homesick in saudade, waiting to be held
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