Notes About The Poem
Written for the time contest sponsored by Sara Jama
Tears of Time
T i m e stops for no one,
as searing seconds swerve
through seasonal squalls,
thawing frost that sleeps upon
the necks of onyx roses,
where pain is etched in skeletal sins~
across pruned plumes,
fleeting through amethyst air,
merged in changing frequencies
of wind and waves,
carrying ballads of a bruised bluebird.
But I have long known grief,
and I’ve tasted the bittersweet
cocktails of life and love.
I am s i l e n c e,
swirling amidst the wheels
of dusk and dawn,
like the unseen flares
of blazing boulevards,
for I am made from ashes of steel,
strong to the eyes
that see not beyond bleeding sighs.
I waltz faster than
my fears can grasp,
the obsidian t e a r s of petals,
leaving each abstract sunset
sketched in acrylics
on murky meadows,
thriving with grieving geraniums.
O beloved moon,
I see lakes of Elysium
through the chained windows
of my tortured tower.
I breathe against the
crystalline concoctions
composed from the ink
of curved constellations,
erasing kismet calligraphies,
cluttered with chaotic conclusions,
sailing toward an astrological sphere,
where colors of love
run free against
the gravity of diabolical dust,
designed on rings of rust.
So let me save the twilight sage,
before the last drop of wintry rage
is no longer tamed by the
treacherous tongue of fate,
for I am armored against
the demonic drumrolls,
luring the splitting sea-surge
to a bioluminescent shore
where Lucifer’s footsteps linger,
caressing the edges of snakeskin,
mimicking merciless mantras
of Medusa melodies,
orchestrated in seething strings,
oblivious to the t r u t h
that I am more than
a wounded warrior,
dressed in whimsical wisterias.
I’ve learned to let go
of every faltering feather,
that blinded me,
pushing my patience
into a labyrinth of tilted tulips,
tainted with twisted tones
and hues of hypocrisy.
Remember,
I am more than the splitting paranoia,
running through corridors of uncertainty,
I am flashlights in the monsoon sky~
emanating petrichor pastels
upon nocturnal nightingales,
singing without words,
dreaming amidst trickling chords.
~ and this is the truth of trembling t i m e
that halts not for the sleeping supernovas ~
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