Nebulous Horizon
When alabaster twilights
rain upon celestial roses,
with tear-soaked trinkets
of ancient aromas ~
I wear their amaranth scents
upon acrylic wrists,
and tie my terracotta threads
of twinkling trust
with those topaz ribbons
of reminiscent tales,
slowly floating
in an opal olive fog ~
where a bouquet of bones
decorates my heart-shaped coffin
and this hoaxed bride,
veiled in oleander organza,
unleashes a tryst of vows,
quivering in vines ~
like an esoteric bane for
those heinous hues
of the elysian moonrise.
Beneath this champagne chandelier,
hanging with a million crimson crescents ~
dare not ensnare
this raven-feathered maiden,
who knows not
the mellifluous masquerade
of backstabbing mantras;
her initials
are condensed from the ink and blood ~
of those moon-winged butterflies,
enslaved in raspberry chains,
and she inhales shrieking ashes of ivory ~
pirouetting frivolously,
like the last leaf of vengeance,
in a blinding black hole
of piercing petals,
as her fingertips shiver and speak
with scentless braille stars ~
stretching across
those silver-smitten pillow skies,
that once remembered her name...
Here, I quench
my quiescence of thirst,
with pigmented poisons
of thy paper paradise ~
slaying the unspoken,
with those telepathic swords
of carbon-glazed cloudbursts,
where, words remain louder
than the sharpest shrapnel of soul ~
and you reep the sins
smoking in the surface
of kohl incensed lakes...
I'm the quaking time of Thor ~
his titanium armour,
a grenade-gold inferno ~
ignited from the nemesis
of handwritten au revoir,
woven with onyx silhouettes of those,
who once stitched scars
in the tapestry of treason.
But, can this macabre downpour ~
drench me in laments
of liquid landslides,
where destiny slithers in spine
and secrets of scrutiny no longer
remain as a satanic dagger in my spirit?
perhaps, this poem is my shrine ~
and in the nebulous horizon,
my chrysalis crown rests...
echoing wicked whispers
of eclipsed emeralds
and obsidian oxymorons ~
so hear me in between,
those translucent splashes
of scarlet storms and skeletal silence,
when I'm swallowed
by the sun,
as his lost stygian shadow...
tasting the liquefied tremors of Bronté tunes ~
bleeding l i g h t e n i n g
in vivacious thunderstorms,
where harps hyphenate
magnetic melancholy ~
and I m
e l t in
oil-painted runes of regrets...
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2025
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