Viking Warrior of Woodland
When the sun hangs low
by scarlet-threaded silk,
you'll find my soul
waltzing in the womb of woodland
like a viking warrior,
where I'm rooted ~
beyond decaying diamonds,
as life unfolds a watercolor symphony
falling from the canopy of chrysanthemums,
and I am more than
those soft-blooded sins,
surfing across satanic stars,
still aching to be cherished
by azure-butterfly auroras ~
where the angels shed their skin.
Hear me in the heathers of a hummingbird,
as it tiptoes and leaves lilac footprints
upon the origami-thin crescent,
unfolding ambrosial sonatas
upon honey-kissed keys of paradise...
Feel me floating
as the last filament of dust,
consumed by remorseful rust ~
where my wings have been forsaken
by featherless birds of the peacock moon,
and I am torn between,
those celestial scents within citrus love,
which choreograph a divine lust for peace...
Sense me in embellished elixirs,
where the custard clemency of cessation
melts every feral twilight ~
and scribbles savannah hues
of tangerine rhapsody
throbbing in the hearts of those,
misunderstood by time...
I refuse to be enslaved
as a liquefied lace
of lovelorn lavenders,
within a mannequin,
whose marble flakes
have lost their mirth ~
for these beasty fragrances,
trapped in wild roses,
will forever shield
my cinnamon stardust,
from slipping away
in a space without sunflowers.
Search for me midst milky ferns,
blossoming in skylines ~
where astronomy flows in the veins of asters,
which have always been
an armour for my intuitions,
a pulse for my psyche,
a chariot for my crestfallen conscience
and a whiskey-gold glare for my grieving faith,
f l u t t e r i n g
like wrinkled violets
in velvet verses...
So, when the florets of 's'aimer soi-même'
unleash from sepals of scrutiny
and sing a forlorn hymn to the reborn trust,
twirling in tributaries of tomorrows ~
I will engrave my magnolia manifestations
and blossom as a four-leaf clover
across fairy wisps of tulip-knitted horizons...
" I am free as those sailors,
spiralling in sunsets ~
between riverbanks
that separate sorrow
from sparkling cocktails,
for, I'm nevermore
betrothed to the devil of darkness
and those murky mosaics of mimosas
don't just remember me,
as a maleficent mistress of metaphors,
breathing in metallic misery..."
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2024
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