Orchid Oxymorons
"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."~ Rumi
Dear Diary,
I’m a hopeless romantic,
a sentimental sonnet
scribbled from the
silent heartstrings
of a mysterious muse.
Forgive me for
another redundant prose;
Cupid too despised
my last love-sick letter
enveloped in lavender lipstick,
written with
lethargic i n k..
Although I’m
still an unheard verse,
a
poetic paradox
etched across
thin lines of
mauve lunar lace,
drifting amongst
metered clichés
flagged as
an unrhymed riddle,
rafting along
rippling regrets,
woven with
orchid oxymorons.
But it all started
with a blank canvas
when the cruel fangs
of
monsoon monsters
drenched paper
roses within,
leaving a
forlorn field
of black thorns
and
blood-stained thistles.
I remember
musky taste
of vanilla rain
while I unfurled
my fragile fingers,
caressing cold
dandelion clouds~
questioning the
moon in melancholic tunes.
What is truth
but a faceless tarp?
Is life but a breathing
lie for sapphire stars
sleeping amidst
the rising sun?
Are we mere dreamers
living a myth scripted
as fantasies untold?
It is through confusion
that we find
constellations of clarity~
to rise above
shackling gravity,
this opalescent orb
is oblivious to the magic
flowing as madness,
labelling
poignant pigments
in my palette,
drawn from the
tunnels of thin veins,
as thick-skinned
sagas of a succubus
floating across
Lilith’s lethal lake
of rustic reflections.
Maybe we are
mere poets weaving hope
amidst meaningless scribes,
veiling our vision from
seeing beyond
scribbles soaring
along hazy horizons.
Yet, I tremble at
tulip thoughts
of dahlia doodles,
for your ivory garden
is my weakness and strength,
pulling violin vines
of my ebony soul
to orchestrate an
opera that serenades
sunflower symphonies
composed to cleanse
foggy mists,
blindfolding icy sighs
within fiery emerald eyes.
If this were to be
my final rune
purging upon pages
hanging like silver lanterns
in your ceramic cerulean,
remember me,
the mistress
of bleeding ballads,
healing from
swollen syllables
of fading sunsets.
Sincerely,
a lost weaver
of lyrical woes…
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Ink Empress
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