Resplendent red, Persevering in the sacred scintillae, Frolicking to all the symphonies of creation, Bringing forth a new life, Tiny species brawling within garnet realm, Bougainvilleas blooming in the splendor of nature, Rubies that cling to the fragile nape, Ichor gliding in the sinews of mortality, Rose, emblem of immortal love, Scarlet ibis levitating in the mangrove swamps, Tiara of inferno lounging on a queen, All the venerated slivers of the cosmos, Unified through crimson strands of life!
Mystics, Integral aspect of every breath, From the pearly heavens of ether, To the clag with intoxicating petrichor, Electrons orbiting the macrocosm, Pile of novels with mushy scent of paper and ink, Euphoria of every encompassing scintillae, Fragments of sundry perceptions in the pate, Mysticism, concoction of the whole nine yards!
Dilation of pupils, As the orbs move heaven and earth, To view the sphere of mortality, Underrated, for her brimming tenderness, Lacuna of heart, mind, flesh and bones, Inhabited with bittersweet despondency, Tint of Celia, a growing concern, Inner goddess, screams for squall of love, Levitating in the midst of dewy metacognition, 3 am, hour of massacre of mammocks sewed with ataraxy!
Within the four solid walls, Bearing the caliginous ambience, Bright distempered enclosures, Embracing the tapestries clung to them, Beguiling closets of timber and glass, Is a mortal with intricacies, Thirsty for the doomsday, Blinds drawn, shutting off the souls, Dawn of sceptical isolation, Vivid reds, blues, greens nothing but greys, Not everyone can fathom the ponderings of a confined soul!
Picayune chime in the chasmic midst, Infinitesimal, yet source of catastrophe, Justifications plenty, sole purpose, Faintest crack to rip open the sacred, Icicled betrayals piercing the subdued heart, Just a vague contact to slip away from the macrocosm, Deafening silence, nothing but quietus!
A tale of two cities, Geographic locations at odds, The little prince, Anticipating to meet his princess, Deja vu experience of encounter, Ultimately, intersection of lines of destiny, With wuthering heights!
The alchemist of each other's joy, Redemption from the confinements, Delivering the entire collection, Of vieled fifty shades of grey, Ties and knots of forever, They lived with one hundred years of solitude!
A tale of two cities by Charles Dickens, The little prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, Deja vu experience by Alan S Brown, Wuthering heights by Emily Brontë, The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, Redemption by David Baldacci, Fifty shades of grey by E.L James, One hundred years of solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
This is my piece to the challenge hosted by Geethanjali ma'am @laughing_soul ❤️ hope you'll like this ma'am
Genesis of picayune disputes, In the dingy spaces betwixt us, Forlorn crepuscular stars gazing below, Ascending the 18th tier, With a smile of triumph across thy gaunt face, Stuffed with gazillions of apols, Hopping over the banister, that alone identifies thee, Catching breaths of accomplishment, Time sweeped you to an uncharted land, And yet, I stand here, At the threshold, to have a final glance!
Abandonments of concrete edifice, Mounting storeys of legacies, Lifeless set-up yearning to be demolished, Enduring the despondent leers from onlookers, Jaded with whispers of despair, Glossy distemper slowly losing it's forbearance, Planks and plafonds deprived of their intimacy, Dilapidations bolster up untold sagas!
On a cold August evening, you Sneak out of The house, your Bare feet tread Softly on the Withered leaves, you Wonder if they Can see your Shadow from the Northwest corner of The verandah, you Cannot help but Think how long It will be Before they find Out that you Have gone missing.
You are a Stranger to this City, and the Roads seem as Unfamiliar as the Day when you First set foot On them, you Hurry as much As you can But there is No clock, no Compass to tell You where you Are going, you Know you are About to be Lost, and you Are trying to Decide if that's A good thing.
Somewhere in the Middle of nowhere A clock tower Chimes, and a Baby lets out Its first cry Your feet drag You across the Gravel, the wind Is your enemy You press your Palm to your Cheek, and recoil At the frigid Touch, and the Dockyards seems much Too far away.
The dockyards stand Proudly, having claimed The ships as Their prisoner, the Waters hold a Promise of freedom They never taught You to swim But now with The wild calling Out to you Screaming in your Ears, you take A plunge into The great perhaps And leave the Rest to gravity.