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.
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