Pawn to Silence
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.
Fate 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, drowning 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.
Copyright ©
Ink Empress
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