Paralyzed Petals
Welcome to the circus
of discrimination-
where soft subtle glances
and fragrant
touches of femininity
are burnt in ashes,
through howling rays
from the sinister sun,
triggering wildfire
chaos,
conquering and controlling
roles of women;
endlessly shape-shifting
from predatory postures
of pretend protectors,
that twist and turn
tangled heartstrings
from a patriarchal pantomime
of their treacherous charade,
obnoxiously oppressing
obscured boundaries,
with their art of arrogance,
placing labels upon
our need for freedom
as sheer ignorance
of aliens aspiring for acceptance.
But what if there was
more to a flower,
than to be left-
dreamlessly
paralyzed in puddles
of poisoned petals?
Is there no wind
that can wash away
wounds of the world
engraved as a
secret symphony
of sorrow,
within sepia sepals?
Will storms carrying
songs of a
suppressed soul be
forever heard
as forced dreams?
Mimicking motionless mountains,
silently static, mistaken for
serenity,
whilst enchanting hills
draped in olive green silk
are confused as gilded
stars in worn novellas,
streaming rivulets of
emerald lakes,
where manuscripts
of tears are apprehended
as melodramatic melancholy.
Oblivious to the wilderness,
where words whirl as poetic
prophecies,
descending as
theatrical thunder,
striking upon abandoned
entities of earth, eclipsed with
fingerprints of
love lingering
liquid fears of
a female fighter,
rising above acrobatic
tyrants—
for maternal daffodils are lions,
glazed in an idle arias,
composing battles
using only words as weapons.
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