Notes About The Poem
For Sara Jama's Contest, Kaleidoscope of Emotional Suffering ~
Heart of Harlequin
dear joker,
of my warm jealous june ~
do you wish to see
how the cupid clown hangs
with those raspberry regrets
arrowless...
in my moonstruck ribs,
piercing the prussian quartz
lifeless... with stone lips,
that does not quiver ~
even when
the heatwaves of heartbeats
metamorphose
to thunderstorms
as the butterfly effect baptizes
and bleeds with bronze bruises,
like a blur in burgundy and blues
tracing to the Oz ~
when the breakdown
of cacophonous clouds
splits into a rendezvous,
without rainbow dusts ...
unhealed, ambrosia drips from
the mouth of mortal moths ~
and there is something dangerous
about devotion,
in your dreamscape,
and my immortal asylum,
where desires are
destined to decay...
you should bite into
the bittersweet bliss ~
ripening towards ruin
for, my emotions
are psychedelic slaves ~
tending to erase the tunes
that taught my wounds
to touch the time
with tears of tranquility...
and revere in redemption
as the feverish flame
of fluidity flickers away...
beyond something ~
that reaches towards the end,
in flaws...
in fragments...
of a story left in fingers...
you know me,
I am half-written,
inhaled by the infatuation
of this kaleidoscopic suffering ~
and your love is a drug,
my devil ~
whose presence
keeps me caged
like a psychopath,
as you are the calm
that never stays,
so intoxicate me
with your alluring illusions
as I lay on the bed
engrossed in satanic sunflowers,
and storms breathe me in,
spilling stars on the screen
from summer-drunk texts ~
rinse me with grief
in rose gold rain,
until those champagne smokes
of the multifaceted moonrise
soak our sanity and rest in peace ...
I think ... maybe,
if time were a loop ~
you would want me,
when I would already
be consumed
by deceptive desires
in the tunnel of traitors,
atoning for their affluence
and seeking therapeutic spells...
where maleficent fairies
wear wings of wax,
and the mime of night
remembers what remained
untold by the tanzanite sun,
as dawn withdraws
from my soul ~
ceaseless...
in the citrine hush of wildfire ...
and, I am nevermore,
your Juliet,
left by july
in breathless leaves ~
but, the hieroglyphic witch ~
the Harlequin
harnessing horror
on the throne of hyenas,
where august weeps
wilting with the last verse
and metaphors wear
a motley of memories,
being my armour...
in multicolored meraki...
as I rule this dynasty
of damage and danger,
a l o n e,
the princess of crime ...
the fool of hearts ...
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