Seijaku

“Only from the heart can you touch the sky.” Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi I am a garden of Monet thriving amidst watercolor wilderness, mourning the death of greens. In pursuit of peace, where lilies are tangled in tranquility, I let my eyes slumber, allowing my thoughts to wander through an iridescent landscape of unnamed orchards, outlined with moon diamonds~ flickering luminous beams upon my melancholic mind, that remains a nomadic sojourner, traveling through shifting time, like kaleidoscopic roses, splattered across the milky-way. Happiness is more than just an illusory noun engraved from electric pens, by passionate poets in quest of a chivalrous expression, intoxicated by ethereal imagism, woven when life unfolds a mundane cycle flowing with razor-sharp regrets, where we drown, paralyzed and lost within somber phrases of serenity. Yet, I refuse to pirouette like a lamented leaf fleeting above flowerless fields. I am an amateur artist, painting my sadness in captivating genres, my brush is like an odyssey of rainbow petals, steered by a sleepless muse, selflessly guiding my blushing heart to sculpt sorrow with periwinkle dreams. There I find blissfulness within the butterfly breeze of sakura sunsets, falling upon my breathless ink, longing to be traced in musical tenderness, illuminating this spiritual connection, set aflame by embers of fervent devotion, dancing across the smooth sky of sanguine seas, where tides of infatuation rinse away ripples of remorse. For in this world of woes I found a lyrical line and turned it into an illustration of sensuous sonnets, emanating love and light when metaphors have no meaning. O sage silence, in your unsung melodies,I found a haven blooming with honeysuckles. The sun and moon synchronized into an amorous ambience. Now I rest my angst on pillows of endearment, embroidered with sweet solace. You will be the last summer seeping along cinnamon strings of my silhouette; the aurora warmth to my frosted dusk, forevermore.