SWEVEN

SWEVEN

Castle walls and turrets in a tinsel of stained glass

House curling wisps, pale ghosts of yesteryears in a slow dance with the infinite stars

A riddle born of crusted ink, she's fragments of history,

rhythm and lyrics, a floating sweven of poetry

There's a fierce winter in her heart where the glaciers don't thaw

Soundless lullabies are stinging echoes, at times howling blizzards against gusts of snow

Gold trimmed sarcophagus and oceans of lapis lazuli

Weave silken strands of summery cobalt to cocoon her heart gauzy

Roadmaps to destiny were dilapidated jigsaw pieces and ingots of serrated edges

Time! Oh vile thief! Scorched on her soul, etched on her mind, coursing through her veins– a stagnant, potent ache

Crocheting splintered memories more distant than the Orion

Impaling obsidian, sometimes as soft as a black swan's down

Skies drenched in ivory sheen quivering in the wind dripping with dew

In a raw summer of deserts where her seasons don't turn, as Icarus she too flew to the Sun, oh alackaday! To be crisped with a soft epilogue

It's a dawn of the roses as you bleed against her thorns

In a hunt for a lavender amethyst amid mirages of boulevards fringed with elusive turquoise palms

Dipping, splashing her toes in dark marshes while collapsing into nightmares freeze

The rain and rivers in her eyes, the incessant rustling hum is a madding surging of her seas

Frozen, molten, riding on the tails of comets—the galaxies expand, shrink, crinkle and sizzle

A torrent, a thunder, she, an insane wroth of exotic horror—Lilith, Athena or Venus donning mantles of rhapsody and ecstatic sanity, an alembic conjuror

Mad as magic, strumming Gypsy chants and moor canticles,

Her heart beats are hymns of the autumn skies, blue orchids and argent slivers

She's an embrace of a pewter-winged angel– a rough-hewn, tough love bard

Worshiper of the moon, she's gone in a trice! poof! whizzing away on the wings of a frisky gem-studded hummingbird.

Pic Courtesy:Pixabay

An abstract poem is non - linear, has no narrative, it is like a dream- hazy, elusive, and open to interpretation

The flow of words, in abstract poetry, seems like one were thinking aloud. Symbols, sounds, colours or persons can indicate an idea, or a quality.

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A HAYWIRE SCRIPT

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CHAPTER 19 BRIDGING MEMORIES:TERABITHIA RECLAIMED

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Sangeetha Kamath

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