Palette of Picturesque Pigment
Her persona is like
a portrait
of picturesque perfection,
embalmed in
bittersweet lavender,
unseen within depths
of tributaries of elixir.
If only they knew
the chaos that flows,
constrained in
a confined
gallery of grief.
Not everyone is
a master painter.
Some brush with brutal
bruised strokes,
provoking timeless
streams of
implicit secrets,
from crimson stains
on ivory satin,
where scents of juniper
evoke phases of
unpredicted phenomenons,
oblivious to chronicles
of forsaken tales,
which hide
beneath barriers,
many have struggled
to venture within.
But there is an artist
with a
pastel on his palette,
that can correct
her disfigured pigment.
He holds cryptic
calligraphic engravings,
veiled behind the inflamed
chamber of her heart.
He understands that her
spirit drowns when
winds are forceful.
How her
delicateness has
been sleeping
on withered roses,
wilted by
cruelest rays of a
summer
mourning
morning star,
Where bedtime stories
were puppeteered
by hurricanes
feeding on
fenceless vulnerabilities.
yet when
sleepless silence sings,
it can disturb
in reverberating
heavy metal screams.
So she echoes her trauma
through hurtful hisses,
poisoning with
vicious venom.
Her aura alters in
acrimonious attitudes
from serene sunshine
to furious gales.
She remains without
a grip on untamable
seasons of
unholy torture,
Only he knows the poem
in her eyes is the
last train home,
so he calms her
tempest temperament,
enabling hidden rainbows
in her mind to reappear.
He is a soothing
gemini night-flower,
even with outcries
of midnight thunder,
his patience resembles
raining jasmine water,
purifying
her murky waters,
into a crystallised milky-way
of kyanite desires,
guiding her
to swirl and swoon
into
whirlwinds of closure.
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