Each star has a pattern of its Own
The Moon
loves in lilac, sees in maroon,
swathed in gossamer and thyme of galaxies,
basking in the periwinkle pages
of my bejeweled mind,
as the night unravels a story
written in powdered vermilion,
of sun-dried moments
and bleached butterflies,
emanating wolfsbane and wisteria woes
of a maternal soul that sings for solace,
wishing sighs within clouds
carrying cotton candy lies
would see through these eyes,
and feel the warmth
between raining thistles.
For every star has a pattern of its own,
and there is no silver brighter
than the spark of faith
and kindness that flows
between charismatic constellations.
You and I, we are different shades of
glistening glows,
born to soar in sync with the
synchronized rhythm of peace,
tangled in a cosmic ballet
where love is more than a poetic word.
To embrace the difference of dialects,
the darkness before the morning rays,
the cataclysmic consequences of ignorance,
an effortless language forever
spoken between your astral seas
and my rosary of regrets.
Tonight, must I listen to the
heartbeat of the horizon
as monsoon tears fall upon my skin,
kissing away stained sorrow,
nurturing the saplings of grief,
in silence and solitude,
drawing a gamboge garden of sunrise,
resembling scented pastels
facing magenta musings
within the crescent of hope…
There is no rhyme rosier than the other,
through mismatched metaphors,
I weave magic of desires,
with wishbone clovers
breathing dreams
brushed in rosemary sage
touched by destiny,
for karma knows
no name nor skin,
but the face of love and
voice of hibiscus havens
an empathetic hymn
shared between ebony
and ivory hearts....
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