Petals of Pain
Once upon a time,
when juliet was a jewel
of psychedelic phrases ~
steering rubies of romance
to distant shores,
where sapphire seafoam
had never kissed the silence of sands ~
there blossomed an ode,
lingering beneath cocktail chandeliers,
scripting a tragedy
where the calligrapher of fate
lost his embellished quill of ' f o r e v e r s '
I was born to witness the violins of fall ~
when lovers became nothing more than
two dragon fruit diamonds, drifting apart
as destiny drives constellations in castaway.
They say,
with fingers stretching across
the ivory-iris spheres of midnight sky,
and apple-tart sunsets condensed through ~
we whirl in celestial chambers
mirroring magic,
like apricot amulets of angels...
but what if, every seraph is a scar
wrapped in blinking blemishes of stars ~
bleeding raspberry tears
across rhymeless riots,
soaking the blank canvas of promises...?
Those egoistic emeralds
that deceived me
by backstabbing the innocence,
harvested in my heart ~
while hiding their macabre musings
in own cocoon of marble-cut conspiracies,
threaded with vivacious vines...
pardon my aggressive aromas,
which may leave raven-rose fingerprints ~
upon the tattooed tyranny of your demons,
for, this one throne to rule them all
hasn't been enough to erase the omen
from their opalescent lens of life...
Perhaps, I am a secret laid bare,
which only the sorceress of sun could conceal,
in the womb of honeysuckle light, as ~
a wizard is not a puppeteer, polished in gold
neither he seeks for those raindrops of revenge
which can engrave my unloved initials
as a 'beauty of bloodstones'...
I cannot be Asteria,
diving in the divine seas of silver elves ~
dreaming of a moment
when preachers of rhapsody would ride
on cashmere feathers of Pegasus,
like an oasis in the desert of cacophony...
and I have been forbidden
by even the worshippers of woes
to imprint my pulsations with timeless trails
of poisonous peonies ~
and mourn the demise of doves,
breathing in me...
"She is a paradise, poised with pearls,
releasing the last scent of a forlorn lullaby,
trapped as torment, in orchards of hate ~
as the zenith petal of pain, finally f a l l s
ferrying and floating upon pistachio meadows,
where vulnerability waltzes in kiwi moon-wings
and peace is found within platinum walls
of one's watercolor psyche..."
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2024
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