I couldn’t talk about it, so I wrote a poem
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written for silent ones contest
To my beloved, when the language
of romance fades into rivulets
rippling with reddish rage…
Before your petal like nature
withers in the subsequent storm,
remember….
In my loneliness, I gather
thorns and thistles,
immune to their twinges.
I've become too reluctant to
thrive amidst jinxed jewels
veiled in cracked constellations.
Yet I wish upon calming pale pearls,
while plunging into lethal lakes,
where darkness covers the sparkling sky,
It's energy decaying flowering faith.
Unable to curate colors that illuminate
wading weeds of woes
in the garden of grief I’ve narrated,
with bleeding hands
and narcissistic blossoms.
And when ebony hues burn
deep into my visions,
tears within my arctic heart,
quiver in silence, searching
for an aesthetic form of poetry,
to sew these crippled letters
swimming through
my vain veins full of vengeance.
The rhapsody of ribboned regrets,
dwell in blinding blackness,
while I’ve long been the
tsunami hiding behind
an enigma entwined
from sun-freckled masquerades,
intoxicated through self-
inflicted triggers that
tremble when light befalls,
to sprout lilac lilies
and raspberry red roses.
So if tomorrow, I forget
the intrinsic ingredients of poetry,
losing my will to
symbolize the pain I’ve caused,
reread these verses,
for I am an envelope of
unsent apologies
and dried dahlias,
suffocating in solitude,
too afraid to ride into
sunflower dawns,
awaiting an eternal
embrace of forgiveness,
relentlessly singing
sorrows through
mysterious metaphors,
regretting past vents.
In between torn pages
is where my dreams soar,
to be the sunrise dipped
in hues of hope,
composing confessions,
when these fingers refused
to find a synonymous ray,
to unfold fluorescent rainbows
draped in purple auroras.
I couldn’t talk about it,
so I wrote a poem,
wishing I can right
the unspoken wrong;
stinging scars
and scorching stars,
while turning ashes into
glistening gems and
fearless fuchsias,
rephrasing toxic patterns
from poignant tercets,
cathartically reigniting
the flames of
twilight aquamarine.
This is I, the flawed sonnet
sealed in kismet kisses,
yearning to be read
in the cashmere cadence
of your enchanting accent.
Copyright © Ink Empress | Year Posted 2024
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