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....