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dearest warm night-writer,
I am 3:33 ~
an angel … ghostwritten ,
in aqueous alphabets of a.m.
within ice-numb novaes
that invade the inkless neons,
sleeping beneath, a blood lotus enigma
a Satan's sanctum ~
unsoothed
in the boulevard of epiphany …
feel me in those fatal flames
homesick to chimeral magic ~
the last leaf,
ruffled in luna’s notebook
as I unseal my lips
from black leather vows ~
and unlock the thoughts
that rewrite tears
into hot-cold chronicles …
O satin wickedness
pressed between
rose wrinkles
of weeping paragraphs ,
I sob and soak
your soulful solivagance ~
solving the paradigms
that equate with pain …
I mean no harm ~
and my skin, a viking vellum
for your sharp venom,
smoothens sorrow
as it bleeds into the stars.
So, tell me what you want,
if it's not the
hypothesis you desire
that stains my hopeful runes ?
what is your transfused truth,
if this violet river
running across
paper-thin sunsets
does not calm
my aching stretchmarks ?
please … don't patronise me
with punctuations
but scrawl through me,
sipping my silence …
studying the syntax of seclusion,
searching for sinister feathers
in the arteries
that dress with auroras
and design damnation …
O' author of angel angst ,
poetess of the dark ~
mourning petal-kissed moonsets
within veins of vivacious vistas
I am touched by you ;
yet, you still don't recognise
the tremors of repulse that
rehearse in me, line after line
a fever flowing within flawless fonts ~
as your stylus swims through
my untouched undercurrents
receding
and
revealing
those dyslexic details
that dawn with doom,
the way you format your
o v e r ~
f l o w i n g
a n x i e t y
with moth-nails
within structures
of a demon-mermaid muse,
diving in the void
within the four walls
of this raven room,
quoting your name with quiescence
by the kismet quill you kiss ~
and then gently place between
the trembling teeth
of wallflower wolves …
I seek soft-crawling colours
in the contours
of this crystallised collage
crucified by commas ,
for I am condensed
by your fears and faults ~
flipped by the fingers of fire ,
read without any voice ~
by your rhythmic repentance,
an ode to the raspberry rain…
with the reverence of superstition
soaked in lilac stardust ~
your fluid syllables flower
through the purple stems
of my soul's sun ,
as chapters remain cautioned
with interstellar footnotes
composed with the lyrics
of loveless rivers ,
unlearning loneliness
as a dream of dramatizing
this dulcet decency …
where lily-feathered lies
taste the roar of lion-laced sighs
in the scripts of stygian sonnets,
I am lost
… I am found
as you apostrophize this ache,
italicise the invisible
and blush me with bold blames ~
until your lethal ekphrasis of life
overwrites the omen
that outruns my outlines
with waves of lawless loyalty...
what weeps within me
is not a poem,
it is the saudade of iris ,
incomplete
with a telepathic trinity of
delusive dots ...
i was never missing;
to save you, i still sear in sacrifice...
the last pulse
left with dusky laments
and braille letters
that were born to die ...
sincerely ~
with love,
The Deceased …
your Heart’s soulful alibi …
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2026
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