Untouched Orchard
She's untouched fruit
from forbidden orchards
barren and wrinkled
with fragmented twigs,
whirling to the beat
of melancholic musings
of black-winged butterflies
that croon and reflect
the true tragedy of a queen
waiting for the
return of her king.
Beneath splitting dusks,
above wicked woodlands
of weathered grim dreams,
personified pomegranate seeds
drip in sangria sins
that feed her fears and lies
from familiar chalices,
but below the streams of
poetic gardens,
raspberry rivers taste
sweeter than honeydew melons.
Cosmos decipher
her destiny designed
for a silhouette emblazoned
in tarnished trinkets,
But there's nothing left
In her shining throne
that reflects in sorrow
like a tombstone
adorned with tilted
tulips and wilted roses
in a ruined wilderness.
All that remains is
a crown that lays
amongst ebony
and bones covered in
cobwebs coated in
memories and hurt.
Her tears swiftly freeze
into frost glazed lakes
holding the last breeze
of mourning dunes
searching for a valley
with his finest tune,
but empty chambers below
her feet echo with ghosts
of his rhymes,
as pantoums tangle in the
paralyzed streaks of
her golden hair.
She sits in silence listening to the wind
carrying wicked witches
and mythological stones,
Hearing the tale
of beloved cities separated
by unforgiving constellations.
If eternity can be illustrated
with calligraphic scriptures,
this poetic saga will reveal
immortal affections
through metaphors that
stretch beyond medieval
manuscripts of an
infinite infatuation.
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