Lens of Life
Can blackwater lilies
sing forth sonnets
of daylight and
unsung those
cacophonous notes
of omen, which
rhymed with
sombre elixir
of spruce rivulets and
veiled your crimson
touch of life,
in eons of unforgivable
death?
Those haunting floods
of heinous moth-ringed
August still carve my
lungs with an eerie
monsoon petrichor,
when the sundial
reversed its succulent
sentimental rhymes
and plagued meteors of
pincushion silence
shattered along the
mangroves, fenced with
sulfuric sunflower rays.
I have traversed through
bioluminescent bays
of morose coasts,
questing for nefarious
nimbus where violent
waves muted my
inked inquests and
pierced through
translucent membranes
of wrinkled realities.
Planting caskets of
kohl-carnations in
cushioned opal flowerbeds
and burying my
mascara in granite
gravestones where
rhetoric ravenous
legacies ruptured
every cotyledon of
love and light,
I bleed upon glossy
pearlescent feathers
of each killed
nightingale who
sacrificed its
versatile voice
to save you from the
abode's obsidian rage.
Now these sherbet buds
have no parental twigs,
nor any throne
of golden anchor,
to protect them from
envious nightglows
and cold cadence of frost.
Dear father,
the lens of life
is now foggy
and opaque,
and your
symmetric skies
are but a cluster of
miniscule macabre
phrases, laced
with miming reapers.
Hypothesis of
existence has
finally feasted upon
my morose metaphors,
as now no
serendipitous sun
can replace
your warmth.
Every permeable
memory is a
misspelled melody,
hanging in these
twilight cobwebs
of ivory threads,
yearning for
the last leaf
to finally fall.
No mathematical
expression
can equate to
your unfathomable
absence neither
any tangerine tangent
can bridge the
gap of dissected
valleys between
the hell and the heaven.
Fate is yet,
an undefined misery,
for, I feel,
this lethal luna
would never prevent
its jealousy
from entwining
in moontstruck haze
of melancholy
and it will forever
melt in my essence
as a traumatizing
tremor.
Papa,
What dialect
will I decipher
to my daughter
when time is
no longer her
amiable fluer and
she's able to
connect those
malignant dots
of destiny,
when her eyes
will linger through
my soul, searching
for an opalescent oasis,
will she be lost
forever in the
silicon storms
emerging in
my heart's desert?
~ "Is life nothing but an eclipsed end
of fervent beliefs, mocking the dead?"
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2023
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