From pitch black paths
I’ve walked, fell and dreamt
Seeking the soils of old graves,
Life hasn’t accorded me crystal chairs
No- I have moved in refined ideations on fruitless thorns
While bleeding upon dirty shrapnel.
I’ve seen the burning of aurora candles
Gloaming in swirls of a weeping violin
I’ve wailed in halos of jaded reverie
Where I partake in a sensual melancholy thicket
That has left me in a spell of descending sunrises
I am a servant to the aura of sweet sorrow
Peeled in the ballet of circumstance
Punctured in the ballroom of a deadly crimson lust,
My eyes blush in an ocean of migrating strength
But the violin;
Like an opus in gallant tides
I’ve sat at the shore
In the hope of drifting away from an aching passion
For in the dusty auditorium of nature,
I am but a shingle of perpetual desire
Destroyed in the hymn of a familiar tide.
All this time, my heart has been deprived of any pleasure
And indeed, facing the declaration of constant hardship
I rue to bloodshot knives trespassing in my veins
In love, carnality, beauty and admiration. All of them
I go to where I am appreciated.
In morals and constraint,
I have minced unbridled fog from the pitch of uncertainty
That any semblance is an impetus of misjudgement.
But I have ceased to control the transience of love
Yet until I relish at my bowl of berries
I shall be a faithful companion of love beyond bounds.
In the seduction of happiness
I’ve lost adulation of brothers and adoration of women
In my search for the most beautiful violin
All at once, the symphony has shimmered my solemn rain
And though I’ve broken down so many times,
I’ve adorned the garments of a solace star
In the hopes of listening to the notes of the moon
And as I scour the manipulating entities of rhythm
I should learn to let my heart lead me;
In instrumental quarters of purpose,
In melodies of half notes in love’s concerto.
I am appended in the wretchedness of chords
That shoves the lotus of guilt inside me.
I am left in the precision of storms
Surrounded by genious gauntlets of ascending embers
Then in the soaking of a numb quiver
The moon delights me in its spectral spirit
Upon the star-clustered swing of a violin
Never stopping to supplement the dreary pictorial of self.
I am withered by chance
Only roused by the hopes of a luscious jewel of a violin kiss
In the nectar of a rhyming and tantalizing omnipotency of the moon
I shall ripple in gust of my heart’s desire
If only to quench the evolving sensitivity of hardship.
I remain innocent of my needs
To the throes of an immense affliction
But now I understand that,
I shall live to cherish the triumphant child of the moon.