Notes About The Poem
Written for Edward Ibeh's contest ~ 'To dust'
To dust
conjured by the subconscious,
here, I walk in whimsy grievances
cloaked with sequined cobwebs,
wearing a crown of crystal conscience ~
as the sun soaks my intuition,
planting blood-stained orchids
in a garden of black diamonds ~
cut with the quietness of corpses,
that only scarecrow scriptures
could hear and mourn ...
where the deities
have forever condemned
my cacophonous ink ~
illuminating illusions
in the dungeon
of wordless draculas,
that forbade me
to let those sapphire spirits sigh
and release my regrets
in the retrograde
of soulful reveries,
a rhyme in rhinestone ~
that can never be left unwritten,
even if my esoteric essence
remains ephemeral.
I'm the flowerless wind
that wraps your fingertips,
wounded with the venom ~
of wolverine woes ...
these penciled paths
lead me to the grave
groomed with ginger and graphite,
as the halcyon of hiraeth,
writes me as a song ~
across this silken slumber
of mellifluous moon-ash,
not wicked but vehement ~
in the way I heal you
in the stillness of the stars ...
where to bittersweet blurs
of seraphic dust
I must drizzle ~
so your tears could taste
the scintillating scents
of sanguine silence
and sacrosanct solace
sobered up in the sanctuary
of maleficent serenity ...
as I feel the glittering flares
of garnet foliage
glimmering in the gimmicks
of my graffiti heartbeat,
whisked in the wilderness
of whiskey weeds
and wildflower rhythms,
that teach me the art of letting go ~
and waltz in those whispering olives
that know the voice
of bewitched ravens,
bleeding in bold verses ~
with the last echo,
untouched, unforgiven
like the queen of crows...
and when twinkling truths throb
untamed within me,
I shall still be here ~
not alive, but a vocal vision,
breaking like the bride of bane,
beneath your breathless brushstrokes,
syncing a swarming storm
of sycamore cries,
and mourning the dreamless destiny,
drowning ~
in the dusky bleeds of
bone-dried daffodils,
until this neon silence
thickens into
nectarine novellas,
narrated by
the worshippers of Nyx...
let this rustic rumination
paint your flesh
with the perfumed paralysis
of sleeping spirits ~
maybe then,
you would remember
the redemptive romance
between a poet
and the dark ~
tracing the
kiss of twilight's kohl arc,
and I'll wait,
until time rescues me,
from this sempiternal sabotage
of mascara roses ~
so, let this soul become
a weightless woe
buried in the bluebell forest,
under the heavy hush
of a heart
that could never
be mine...
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