Dawning Poetic Dreams
I'm an enlightened
equinox, strolling in
faded universe,
dreaming poetry in
susurrus serenades
of rustling
ruby-leaves which
whisper cool
beamish hues
to my autumnal-
quartz heart,
when the nucleus
of unborn flowers,
wishes for a
meditative
musing amidst
this mocha
season of
transforming
dialects.
But, why do I
ricochet as a
metallic sonder in
this diamond decade,
is today's forlorn fall
a resurfacing
darkness that's
restricting my
dewy palms from
bleeding claret
streaks of emotional
efflorescence?
What if this
woollen russet-scarf
is an emerald
seraphine noose
for my smoked
existence?
I dream of poetry
as a maple moonbow,
where, I'm the glare
of ageless stardust,
scattering mulberry
mizzle of healing
hymns and splashing
rose-gold mists
across those
pastel phosphenes
of fated dolence;
trying to unlock time's
ebony chambers,
sequined with
ebbulient gems.
But, only if every
mercuric wing of
heaven were as
distilled as the
brightest loyal feather
of liquefied light,
would I still find
myself erasing own name
from the galactic ruins,
written as a
nebulous naivety of
victimised hearts?
I dream of poetry,
as a bioluminescent
throne bejeweled
with aqua-florets,
floating on cyan tides
like a cream-blue pearl,
swinging in sun-struck
embrace as tuscan rays
kiss the lustre of
sea-green marmoris.
Albeit my wails,
O hibernated watercolours,
why did you leave
the cashmere canvas
of my dreary jungles
and blanket me in
butterfly-stars of
lemon-yesteryears,
where my intuition
echoes beneath the
opal anthem of
sakura-metaphors,
spiralling in silence
of sea-maiden's soul?
I wonder if,
I'm an earthling ash,
planting flowers as
irenic trouvailles across
maroon meadows,
when skeletal skies sail
in the onyx omen of
scattered fossils,
above my calligraphic
dreams of graceful
poesy and juxtaposition
of life stares like a
blood-cloaked scarecrow,
below peridot seas.
Perhaps, smiles of
bougainvillea too
have plastered
symphonies and
broken secrets,
which they exhale
in their final
rufescent rupture.
I'm just a lonely
sequoia tree,
draped in
honeysuckle hiatus,
having no
fervent faith as
my dulcet ozone
has depleted into
granules of
grieving gulfs,
and I have clasped
hollow hues
of helium in the
labyrinth of
shallow lungs,
so that teal thistles
don't gravitate
me into the
eclipsed casket,
dividing divine
intervention within
fractions of
fractured dawns.
Copyright ©
Hiya Sharma
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