Streaks of Poetry
Sometimes In silence
I question citrine stars~
what streams beneath
murky waters,
Is hope still flowing
through rusty ripples,
why do we live
in an orb
of sheer blindness,
would the wind
ever seize tunnels
behind the black hole,
or are we destined
to narrate novels
too narrow and unseen
for the naked eyes.
Whilst the earth
lies dreaming,
manifesting milky-ways
quilted on magical mats,
wishing, hoping, praying
that pastel colored patience
and crystal clear compassion
would vaguely sway
like glowing fireflies
amongst the darkest
edges of innermost core.
Transmitting seraphic
breezes upon
tender branches
of silk cotton trees.
But amidst the
destructive defacing
of turquoise heart
within evergreen forests,
sun and the
moon still flicker
streaks of poetry
along the linings
of tattered
tweaks and wilted weed.
Yet worldly impulses
fail to remember
that mother nature
is in need of kindness,
as she’s been
fed poisonous petals
dipped in a quagmire
of ignorance.
Escorting her
golden spirits into an
inexorable grievance,
as ghastly greediness
left no rosy seasoning,
of soils we strolled,
paths unnamed and
undiscovered halt,
questioning toils
of intrinsic creation~
the earth lies
in solitary slumber,
for in delicate dreams
we sing songs
of tranquility,
more mellifluous
than the burning
fumes we
inhale mindlessly.
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