Narrow Margin

In the narrow margin between life and death, I feel as I'm walking a tightrope - but balancing. I'm a portrayal of metaphors, illuminating like spring's moon, who sunk like winter sunset, but arose like summer sunrise - my last breath an autumnal leaf. What is life but a blank canvas of expectations.. Time is an enemy of a poet's existence, death an end to battles with illusive ink, where a resonance of reflections, mirror window-winged moths of memories, which erase and rewind yesterday's tunes, composing a butterfly massacre of consciousness. I'm tired from inhaling and exhaling expression, when the other half of my sanity strums strings of sombre sounds of paranoia, resembling psycho motions inside a cocoon. Yesterday, I was seduced by sinister shadows, with frigid breaths haunting like black chilling spectres. My solitude became a sanctuary full of shattered shards, sheltering souls from synonyms of stolen secrets, protecting them from the thesaurus of thieves. Life is like an eclipse, cleansing sins of the sulfuric sun. When it tried to abandon me, I fought back the tears I never cried. Adrift in the mists of misunderstanding, lost in a valley of melancholic mountains, re-enacting unspoken stories of a forsaken flower, I planted seeds from pigments of an Autumn rainbow. Hoping destiny would light up this emptiness. Today, I've discovered soothing words. Nourished my garden into an archetypal vision, where champagne clouds in scarlet skies intoxicate the senses in emerald meadows. I sit on a throne of sapphire sepals, listening to sounds of whispering waves kissing coral dreams, but I'm persecuted by liars resembling lunar lanterns, who hide their wicked schemes behind halos. I'm submerged in rose water, but not drowning, trying to grab onto untouched blossoms of devotion. If truth was an instrument, then I would be free from wrath, not a prisoner liberating petal hearts through poetic justice, releasing waterfalls flowing into a lake of tears. Although my muse rests in a glass casket, you cannot prevent a poet from personifying pain. It comes alive once twilight moves out of sight. Needing no guidance upon paths of darkness, flashing like lightning between broken lines of thunder. But in every storm there is suffering. There are no winners nor losers in this emotional race we call humanity. Poetry tried to say goodbye with an envelope of empty words - yet I'm still the voice behind silent sonnets. When fate dilutes my pen and there is no ink, my veins burst, bleeding in vivid verses, but I remain content - no longer seeking. I need no legacy nor identity. I would rather portray a blank page, than gain a reputation for popularity. Life can cremate me into ashes, like an unremembered memory, but time after time I'll be reborn from wildfires - continuing to build bridges that connect words.