Tributaries Of Black Tulips - Collaboration with 'Ink Empress'
When heinous fangs
of life drain
the amethyst glow
flowing above
infected ripples of time,
I question the
chaos that claims
serenity through
saline serenade
of sirens, composed
with midnight ink
across a mazed face
of a starless canvas,
What if these coastal
conch confettis want to
skip heartbeats with
peridot rhymes inscribed
as reefy runes?
will the cracking
waves of canorous
currents synchronize
stranded dreams
hanging on
mellow strings
of my cello soul?
For decayed dice of
destiny rolls
to swirl along
bruised blue caves
of molten bubbles
emanating dusted
crystal tears from a
charcoal oyster throne,
bejewelled with
broken ballads,
as voiceless verses
echo angst from ruthless
tentacles of poisoned
urchins, stinging
opalescent scales
that once upon a summer
sheltered and rinsed
pansy green
pigmented pain
that sketched
pantoums with
moon-laced refrains
illustrating my
delicate skies.
Breathing in
raging hailstorms,
I’m a damsel nymph
of seven merlot seas,
weaving a tapestry of
camphorous conscience,
flooded with sins
of sundrop resins and
my truth residing
between the
liquid-fire rings
of white-silk seahorses,
galloping and racing
into blind aqua-herbs;
My life is blanketed in
harbor-grey smoke,
clasped by eight
sharp swords of
erratic octopus’s oblivion,
Whist being guided
by narcissistic
nightingale’s malignant
sonnets, crisply crushing
the ribboned hope
which once blossomed
like a chartreuse folklore
in my aromatic
spine and bones.
I weep violet blood
and inshore tributaries
upon marine wildflowers,
As I gaze at the
ablaze ships,
crashing waves
and lethally jostling
cacophonous cuckoos
in the ocean-burial,
to be diluted in
pastel-blue atoms,
as none but
comet-chased
sea-maidens;
my celestial soul
carries a naive
efflorescent voice
of all the leaden hearts,
which navigated
black-tulip waters
of wanton pirates,
rephrasing regretful
harmonies and
covering morose
ashes with
constellations of
unicorn-shells
gliding in cranberry
curls of sweven tides,
surfing towards skyline of
forlorn Poseidon.
I wonder, if ravishing
rays of sunsets,
embrace the
shimmering shoreline
where emerald sea-foam
floats as pearlescent
picturesque poems,
embalmed in ivory
stains of yesteryears,
whilst we still
reminisce the monsoons
where crestfallen
eagle rays whisper
sombre tales to the
eyes of humankind,
that refuse to
speak the language
of love and light.
Copyright ©
Hiya Sharma
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