Love's Last Heartbeat
In the moorlands of desires,
I've forever sung choruses of
fertile faith, amidst the flock
of bleeding birds, sprinkling
heartbeats on lush olive herbs,
In the dream of retracing their
scintillating season of beachy spring.
'Hope' had always been a
pearlescent paste of turmeric
temperance for the harp humming
within my heart and swamping
upon honeyed valleys, like those
magical bees which buzz in
hymnal ballads, as messengers of life.
But, standing under the Camellia tree,
I hideously wish upon the paradises of
half sculptured truths and quest for your
merlot shadow, to ask, what if this were
the last pulse that you felt along my arteries,
would you declare those peridot letters
of the fondness that we shared as
a truth never left as an unseen melody?
When weeping roses melt in the
pillow of cranberry tears,
your silhouette still simmers as
a lighthouse through the mercuric
fog of anxiety and I reminisce
those dwindling daylights when
you made me stroll in a mine of
asteroids, under the lemonade haze
of raspberry tart skies, when our skin
melted along the arcs of white sands
as we whispered secrets about our future.
Tonight, blanketed in frostbit ebony rays of the winter moon, when poetry is the last sapling yearning to feel the pewter kiss of diamond droplets, I am questioning your eyes, in this
final life, would you ever be soulfully mine?
I've wandered with werifesteria,
in your mahogany psalms of white topaz,
lilac daisies and ambre dandelions, smeared with scents from periwinkle to burgundy,
but these hoaxed hydrangea coffins of our unheard fate have always stung my
blushed zeal, like a sombre dragonfly's curse.
Perhaps, forevermore I'll find myself,
scorched by the bonfires of forget-me-nots, swathing my soul in cold coffee dusks and
climbing silver ladder towards
the crossroads in front of the heaven.
As a moth addicted to jet-ink flames,
I now slither in smoked cocoon,
rising in smog above the sun,
asking those midnight meadows,
if their barren soils would reincarnate
me as an angelic sakura in their last
prelude. Would I be remembered as
the princess of your amethyst twilights
and ruby renascence in the last Au Revoir?
I would have skipped the
wingbeats of heaven and plunge
from their plum sunsets to cradle
my rouge heart in your golden arms,
for, I wanted to love you beyond death;
but if only you ever echoed the
crimson chords of 'I Love You' across
the marble mausoleum of my soul.
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