Best Throned Poems
I was cursed with ink
intoxicating blank canvases
with toxic scribbles,
releasing twisted tales
of suppressed troubles.
I was a forsaken ebony rose
in satan's grasp,
kneeling on ungodly needs
in a gothic fortress
of woeful odes,
surrounded by black knights
and colorless blossoms,
searching for legitimate sestinas
and versatile villanelles
to ignite my quill to bleed
without semantic barriers.
Swaying like a pendulant,
on the edge between
light and darkness,
resembling midnight's
black ice queen,
I thirsted for a
universal prophecy.
A poet who would engrave
perennial verses upon my
discoloured healing heart.
To paint antique stones,
during sunless days
in a moonless kingdom.
A calligraphic catharsis,
adorning the sincere crown
of an imperial ivory king,
whose angelic voice
glitters like gems,
soothing insensitive beating drums
within my pondering pensive mind.
A majestic master of his quill,
reviving poetic intimacy,
fusing his musings
deep inside untouched chambers
with an unscratched itch,
of my undanced fandango.
F a t e has a way for
versifiers to assimilate.
From the first drop
of his couplet,
he had my tongue
rhyming to the rhythm
of his unspoken lyrics.
Now, I am a slave to
what I have become.
Handcuffed and blindfolded
by preserved petals
between perfumed pages
written from the tip of his
magical wand like fingers.
I am weaving crystal quartz
words in witching hours,
whilst he pours dulcet musings
incensed in white sage
over my rustic bronze silhouette,
as I am his willing mistress:
a submissive subservient pawn
to his silent slavery.
Throned in intricately carved
prose and poetry,
where monochrome strokes
of thin lines no longer perish.
There’s no need for a sorcerer
when his sentimental sonnets
are an addictive elixir.
I am deliriously comatose
and chained in piercingly
euphoric sagas of his saccharine soul.
Even Lilith seized the moment
to behold what belonged to her
In the name of infatuated love.
So this is me, stealing
scented seeds
sown along parallel paradigms
of his rightful Parnassian paradise,
d r o w n i n g in
metaphorical monograms,
leaving memoirs of a poetess~
seething glitters and gold
reborn from the depths of
a savior that saved
me from burnt chapters
of darkest oblivion.
I gaze beyond
the silver winged
heart of
twinkling twilight,
lost within metaphors
in warm cashmere
bows of midnight.
Whilst lava lamps
for lost souls
f l i c k e r across
a maze of melancholy,
ghosts of past whispered
surreal sagas through
subtle mists~
silky snow that
d r i z z l e s
in the shape of crescent,
slowly trails
my moon-kissed skin.
If only the stars
of scarred silence
spoke the voiceless
truth raised from
the arms of trauma~
not every glowing
ray is destined
to be your wish
come true,
I was sculptured
in hailstones
of burnt ice,
and my ivory nails
drowned in the color
of your fire blood.
I am the throned
mistress of massacres,
a walking black storm,
that strikes onyx lightning
upon pearlescent
roads to hyacinth healing.
For everything
I touched
became frost,
when heavy clouds bled
to paint the skyscape
in citrine powder.
Perhaps, there is
no need of stretching
your fingers in gratitude,
as it shall
soon abandon
every lucky charm,
like the death of poetry
within inked
pages of
an accidental poet.
Yet, I still see
the unwritten
verses in your dewy eyes~
unsung
poetic confessions,
written in
diamond and rust;
“you’re the poison
I’m willing to take”
Like how romeo
died in the name of
a forsaken tale
told by the infatuated
soul of his Juliet~
Cupid’s bow still
is adorned with her
love-struck tears
that emanate
unshed truth.
So let, the alchemy
of dreams concoct,
a perfumed potion
from black
quartz rain,
to ease this caricature
lifetime of memories~
chasing sonnets
contrived in sorcery,
to seize the stories
of
misplaced prophecies.
whilst hope is flying
on paper wings
of a dark
horse carousel,
where my past self
was crystal-gazing,
to see the crown
carved from rhinestones
of shattered glasses,
piercing through
my honey mane.
But, this immortal
heart will remain
in a museum of
Monet’s garden,
where sorrowful
serenades linger
above thornless roses.
For I am heaven
and hell for you,
in everlasting awakenings
transcribed in turquoise
topaz till tomorrow…
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
I think I made you up inside my head.
-Sylvia Plath
I see no reason to rhyme,
but an aching heart,
stranded in the midst of nothingness,
as quill rests in a nameless
coffin, like a trembling corpse.
Words woven in tears
glisten like rain,
amidst rustic pages
within a book of bleeding ink.
While
I, the deep darkness,
ponder, would the moon
ever grieve for the sun,
or will she allow waning
stars to abandon
her doleful realm?
As her face
shifts and turns through
phases of changes-
and her soul like
the weary winter,
withers into white-washed wounds.
I am the hazy mirror to
a lunar goddess.
There shadows betrayed
this cruel conscience,
roaming within forlorn vales,
swirling through a woeful wind,
to nocturnal sonatas.
My mind nestles like
a raven resting
at the treetop,
calling your name into
frozen oblivion,
laced in secluded silence,
echoing amidst obsidian fears.
What would they know
of tainted tales,
obscured within the
mellifluous sound of splitting rain?
I am throned to a fallen sky,
drizzling thorns and splinters
upon bruised toes.
Remember, I love you,
through dreams and more,
stretching my fingers
to your silvery spheres.
Now your palette of romance
paints a blurred portrait
of hallowed misery;
dreams forgotten with time.
There’s no perfect
pigment to correct
my insomniac frame
but metaphors to lure me
back to a colorless
castle above satanic seas.
I’m dancing with demons;
as the pain you’ve fed me,
rushes through chained chambers.
Tonight, the storms may seem calm,
like forests awaiting for a trail
of redolent rainbows,
to flicker upon mourning meadows.
Tomorrow, when I slumber
six feet beneath breathing fiction,
will you rewrite cruel convictions,
that stole my purpose to live?
Maybe darkness sparkles upon
rich rivulets of rippling regrets,
so the cosmos would allow the moon
to rise and beam brighter than
the selfish sun.
Let this poem be the last
amulet to sorrowful sagas,
as I untangle your vines
suffocating my final breath,
this is the eternal demise—
I’m dying before your dead eyes.
“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before”
Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven.
I’m sitting on the cusp
of blazing silence,
watching thick
sullen clouds
swerve in funeral pace,
as ruby reds within
ravishing rainbows,
disappear into depths of
blue laced emptiness,
like silken fire rising from
a diamond-furnace,
illustrating the venom
rushing through
my veins in vain.
The sun always knew
of the pain I swirl to
amongst silhouettes
of burning stars.
I am a mistress
of darkness,
crowned beneath
a fallen sky
sequined in
sinful sapphires
and amaranth angst.
Throned to a kingdom
that has no air
for fragile flowers.
I’ve faced cruel
fangs of reality,
that fed my paranoia
with wistful peonies.
There’s no ray of twilight
for the tormented tears,
I hide behind
the shimmering
horizon, painted with
dandelion dreams in
dreary drowsiness.
And I surrender at
the edge of
doom to an
agony of a pawn.
But there’s no
running from a
lethal kiss that kills,
like the queen’s gambit
that would freeze your
soul into thickened vapors
of bleeding ice.
Yet the moon looked straight
through my soulless eyes,
hoping I would taste
an ounce of her truth.
If only facts would reveal
tiny seeds of grief that
were sprouting steadily
into what they
call "madness"
maybe then they would
have known,
even black roses
bleed the same as red.
As the sky weeps
in periwinkle petals of
multicolored roses,
rinsed in lemons, and lavender,
the poet within me
releases a bougainvillea
bouquet of unfiltered gratitude,
swaying to the celestial duet
orchestrated by
the angel of raindrops,
adorned in braided
wildflower crowns and
windswept wishes,
echoing dulcet melodies
rendered in whimsical accents.
I ponder, if tears had a tune,
would it be the
sound of drizzling dewdrops?
Would you then feel
the pain I carry,
veiled in smoky silence?
Or would I forever be
the silhouette cloaked
in fogs of charcoal confusion,
too dark to be deciphered
by the fragmented eyes
that eulogize
all that sparkles and glows?
But when stained sunflowers
swirl beneath starless spheres,
scattering seeds of sorrow
to cultivate a garland of grief,
puddled with poignant poems,
I remain throned,
as the goddess of black rain,
riddled with cosmic rituals,
sprinkling kaleidoscopic dust
upon forsaken fields,
while listening to the
drifting leaflets in crisp air,
pleading for the demise
of my unfaltering faith,
oblivious to the truth
that I fear not
mists of melancholy.
I surf through surging seas,
unafraid of twirling torrents
and blazing tides,
piercingly striking
shimmering sapphires
floating in deafening despair.
There in the abyss of obscurities,
I’m nestled within restlessness,
in rooted resilience,
like a perplexed paradox
weaving crippled odes to
the sun that longs to rise and sail,
splashing hues of cinnamon clemency.
Tonight, I’m counting crooning comets,
amidst quivering hailstones,
dancing in cataclysmic rhythm above,
to find my home within
an island of daphne dreams
and singing seashells.
For I hear the flaming flowers
in their solitary stillness
serenade rain rhapsodies,
to awaken the petrichor
soul of heavy horizons,
wrapped in stringed
milky-quartz beads,
bursting forth blooming tomorrows,
illuminated by chamomile water,
concocted from charismatic spring falls…
Yet I think of us, engrossed
in umbrella moments,
Cupid too envied this
symphony of romance
where love conquered all,
and grief but a blurred memory,
in sunlit souvenirs of yesterday.
He is silence,
crowned in rosy rhymes,
sprinkling balmy rain
upon frail flowers.
misunderstood, yet
beneath his armor,
is the selfless moon,
bestowing starlight.
when darkness unfolds,
time may be cruel,
but seasons can't wilt
soft-spoken sagas,
echoing amidst
hushed sanctuaries.
he shoulders the weight
of a true savior.
suppressing his need
to be heard and seen,
in a world so dark
and misleading,
he remains throned to
an emerald
garden, that glows
as the king of
picturesque patience.
painting the wrongs right
through butterfly strokes,
of everlasting
acrylics, in gold
across mourning skies.
When the sky is a
sequestered sanctuary,
and the clouds croon
for sinking star-beams,
listen to the euphoric hymns of silence,
for seething storms throned
beneath rainbow castles
shall never obscure the
crystalline colors of compassion,
amidst thickened fangs
of dwelling darkness,
constantly trying to
seize peacock pigments
within violet-blue seas
of sequined sentiments…
O’ beloved white rose~
perfumed in vanilla love,
let not the wolf-spider gaze,
mirroring envy within black widow hearts,
confuse your diamond vision.
It’s just another day,
enveloped in a warm sakura sunrise,
there the gales of greed
looming in ghostly flecks,
question the redolence of rivulets
behind your veiled vigor.
There’s no reason to fear
when hope flows and drifts
like comets flying as fluttering butterflies
across the butterscotch horizon.
Remember, when the sage sun
seeps into foggy crevices,
and deserted dunes
speak in ashen accents,
their choice of words do not define
the rhythm of your seraphic symphony.
Your merlot wine spirit is
the whimsical wand turning unspoken
tales into wildflower wishes.
There’s no need for an alchemist
nor a sorcerer to concoct
spells that rearrange constellations,
as your voice swirls in magical mists.
You and I, are every last thing
we need to conquer the bewitching
perimeters we truly deserve.
Tonight, when my lids rest upon the
dreamscape of daffodils and dahlias,
I see that look in your eye.
I ponder, is it me that you long for?
Am I the unfading ink
within your saccharine sonnets?
I yearn to be the one you talk
about in sweet seclusion.
This trembling canvas longs
for no other skin to caress the acrylic
edges of my aching soul,
and I do not need
the wind and water
beneath whistling willows
to write my destiny
in green and gold.
We don’t need shades of shadows
following our intertwined silhouettes,
yet I let these metaphors
merge with the heat of
your passionate presence,
as you and I break through
the landscapes of grief
with mutual attraction
like the mulberry rays
between the moon and earth..
“If, to speak my truths, I bleed these syllables, let the wind ferry them to a moon-kissed shore,
for I am a caged rose dreaming in deafening darkness” Quote by Poet
I mourn within an aquamarine aquarium,
drifting like treacherous torrents of the Arctic Ocean,
while my ink, stained with sorrow, floats like splintered sapphires,
serenading the unspoken reality of obscured waves in blistered black.
But if truth were a poem,
woven from bleeding colors of supernova scars draped in stars,
will the calligraphic constellations carve my tale in crystalline cadence?
For I’ve long been fighting currents of chaos in silence,
too reluctant to wade beyond the familiar torment,
as I’ve sealed an eternal curse,
enveloped with macabre metaphors from cold caves of satanic seas.
Now I am the throned rose of darkness, breathing hope~
and faith, to erase scribbled heartaches.
I know one day I’ll reach my shore.
I gaze beyond
the sky of sapphires,
waiting for a
spark of sailing light,
listening to
the balmy breeze~
they kiss the
rays of silver,
with tales of
my eclipsed past.
Maybe tonight dandelion
wind will dance in sync~
to sunset kayaks cruising
through wounded waves,
shimmering amidst
tear-stained dunes…
I lean on the seething sea
of seven sisters,
to rewrite my destiny~
learning from flawed art
within my aching heart.
But am I the one at fault?
or were you the
reason we fought?
I question the twirling time,
passing through
hues of forest haze.
Was the blame in
broken melodies~
strung from frail strings
of my antique guitar?
Maybe, somewhere
down the lane of
finding myself,
I lost our rhythm,
trying to fine-tune
symphonies of
frozen love.
Now I’m gliding towards
the moonlight
away from the
soulless midnight,
to reach a cosy shore
where I can knit
quilted patterns,
unraveling a place
that feels like home.
As I’ve been searching
for an island that has no
lifelines of faded vows,
so I’m running
from the limelight;
ice green footprints,
following me and
our musical memories,
like sinister silhouettes.
I never thought that
you were the one,
I always knew I was the
throned queen of darkness.
Who will it be next,
to rescript this
tattooed misery?
Maybe, a poet with
an acrylic quill softer
than the air I breathe.
Now I’m gliding towards
the moonlight
away from the
soulless midnight,
to rise above the silence.
I still hope that I’ll waltz
through a sphere
where warmth
of faith flickers in
colors of honeyed hope,
and home will no
longer be an illusion,
etched on dusky feathers
of diamond dreamcatchers.
Someday, hourglass pearls
will fall in shades of
this poem I’ve woven
in starry ink~
this is the unfinished story of
You and I.
Throned green eyed rat in
golden trap of cheesy poo
he rules like a king
Nestled with the glittering elements,
I ponder the immortality of the senses—
my lucidity twirls,
as pirouetting flakes through
sapphire mist amidst cyanic windstorms,
drifting like arctic embers,
towards cerulean twilight skies,
beyond frost covered pains,
littered across glacial clouds that linger,
swirling upon an indigo iced cluster of
topaz teal stars,
enveloping my cobalt soul beneath your
cashmere caress—
we behold the wonder of an
opulent crescent moon,
cradling our kismet love, in
vows of our balsamic destiny, ever
sanctioning icebound purgatories
buried deep in our bones, in
flurry feathered snowfields,
guiding our
souls back home to our halcyon hereafters,
where I’ll sit throned as the
queen of blizzards,
wearing a crown of bleeding splinters.
When the dusk bleeds
epitaph roses,
and the blackbird sings
wilted elegies,
I search for a glimpse of gold
beneath tender ingrains of
soundless tears and sightless fears.
But to feel the broken wings of life,
must I breathe coffin-laced vows
amidst the haunting air
that tastes like stone-sleet sorrow?
For I’ve long been a phantom bride
to the deadliest fangs of the devil,
veiled in vicious violets,
throned in the tempest of torment,
plagued by a curse
spelled as lethal love,
concealing threefold threats
between vampire verses,
with moonlit musings
stuck in the ice-cold
embrace of death…
O raven heart, what am I to trust
when bluest bruises are believed
in the figment of fog’s fine art,
cornered in the catacomb cacophony,
choking the chorus of mourning?
I walk on sharpened eggshells,
afraid of the unwelcome fist of abuse,
with ashes of promises~
fed from the claws of
the beloved Satan,
cloaked in Romeo’s ruby ruins,
reciting sepulcher chants,
confusing the sun in my soul,
constricting the tunnel of trauma,
exhaling the naive
rhythm of my name.
As I am the essence
of collapsed crystals,
a whimsical wreckage,
ostracized and strangled,
while silence knows
the seething symphony of shame.
As tomorrow is a sickening cyclone
awaiting to condone patience,
humming heinous hymns
to soothe the scarred cracks
that grew within the hellish haven
of wicked wilderness,
that homed corpse flowers of fragility,
oblivious to the pain
hanging on hollow walls,
highlighted with
gruesome glows of glistening grief,
when truth is
obscured in strained stains
of clandestine chaos...
This heart~ a lovesick talisman
f l a r e s fallen sparks,
seeking Mayan glyphs of hope
amidst layered lace of halcyon,
illuminated with tears
of black diamonds,
for the empires ruined
by the self-righteous kings
throned in greed,
draped in galactic gold,
while ceremonial pyramids
adorned with copper footprints,
face the Venus star like sacred trees,
engrossed in sacrificial salt,
threading through ancient roots,
r e m i n i s c i n g
prophetic light of twin flames…
But beneath the storm
of wistful wildflowers
carrying pollen-etched promises,
there I revisit the book of soul,
with laws of lethal lies,
and ponder what
must have the
world witnessed
when mysteries of life were
mindlessly manipulated
from vermilion vines in
the vindictive valley of stone,
where civilizations were cremated
with smoke of hypocrisy,
and pages of destruction…
So, in this dejected domain of truth,
I question green-eyed dragonflies
fluttering in caves of confusion.
Will devotees of the antique moon
feel the sunrise within these words,
woven in white?
For I am the veiled bride,
wearing shells and feathers,
chained to the phasing cycles of Luna,
chasing the aura
of passing planets…
A paradise painted with rhinestone riches
and insincere ink
can never
last for an eternity,
but will be written as
a
f i n a l surrender
to roses that breathe
the forgotten fragrance
of the forsaken forest,
perhaps through
poignant tales of the past,
I will find the frayed spirit
of withered sagas,
the essence of broken vows
embalmed with
ancestral rain...
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill, of things unknown, but longed for still, and his tune is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom-
Maya Angelou
Reality may be a poetic cocktail of pistachio and pecan,
yet it tastes the same as bittersweet betrayals,
saturated in plum flavors of pain.
There’s no antidote without a verse woven in vain,
feeding fire of life with red threads of fate,
hanging on fiery jewels ornamented across a phoenix gate.
Ostracized from a cautionary tale that lacks the essence of an empath,
oblivious to wicked winds of flames burning every truth written in temporary stillness.
But, the world that I love hates me in sheer shades of shame,
shoving my needs to a chained chamber-
of the saint and the sinner lost in an already designed game.
And I question in prose of mutilated rhymes,
will I ever heal in hell that shattered my will to flee from senseless spells?
for the devil bought and sold me to the malignant valleys.
Now I’m throned in trickeries painted with multicolored masquerades and toxic trinkets.
When battles fought are of emperors leading unseen wars,
I am caught in a moment where melancholic musings engulf my midnight sun,
I ponder, does the silent bird feel the weight of its wings?
Or are we confined eagles lured with rose diamond dreams,
still surviving through stolen songs of the damned woodland crickets?
unable to let go and attain an eden with no history of scandalous sagas.
We are in search of starry nights that will never dim their rays upon our souls,
as only in darkness can you see the light that consoles:
aching hearts in search of clustering comets cloaked in implicit desires and love beyond gold spun galaxies.
h u r t me…
with your deadly devotion,
leave lethal love-bites
across pulsing pages…
I ache to wear the burning blaze
of your rhymes around my neck,
to be choked by poetic desire,
to be punished with personified fire…
but what is a jewel
without your touch?
there is no gold ~ free-falling
from outer space,
deeper than sparks rising higher,
in tune with the mercury madness,
the cosmos of craving ~
taste this undying thirst
for ethereal union,
wrist to wrist, poem to poem,
ink to ink, skin to skin,
lips locked in longing,
as I yearn for eternal rest ~
knowing that when
I return, you’ll still be there,
willingly mine, evermore,
leashed to my Stygian stars,
O beloved blue moon rarity,
my Orpheus of musical silver,
where the throb of Eurydice
echoes like the pain of passion
I cradle within ~ heaven’s roses
bruised by obsession,
throned in an orchard of thorns
where every petal bleeds
the fragrance
of fatal fidelity ~
surrender
to my fixated fantasy,
worship the warmth of want,
as I slip into the
void of this endless black,
swallowing the ambrosia
from your acidic tongue
that drips venom and verses,
hauntingly hypnotizing
with the wet
heat of a rain-soaked lyre,
where we will be reborn
from the underworld ashes
of ghost-glazed diamonds…
I crave to be the cluster of reasons,
the wedded widow,
still gowned in viper’s devouring,
chained in anklets jeweled
with jinxed jade,
dragging me down a realm
of the unspoken
parts of the underworld ~
oblivious to the earthly creatures
crawling through coldness…
I am smoothly strangled
by the symphonic sentiments
of a loyal liaison,
an epic obedience,
that made the angels of life and death
weep and sleep
to the sound of defiant dews
of a reckless romance ~
for love seeps from curling
words into a
floundering bloodstream,
tying fanatic temptation
to the corpse tunes of gothic twilight…