Metaphors written in psychedelic ink

When words like seeds remain uncultivated, in somber silence the poet within me dies. In the misery of my perishing poetic oasis, petal like poems refuse to infuse idealistic pigments. But without words, a midnight beast lurks in thoughts hidden behind metaphors written in psychedelic ink. My beloved is a black rose who's thorns are like blades. Her pecan lips lustfully devour my heart's purple blood, because she loves to see me bleed in musing rivers, flowing upon shores of her poetic fibres. On dark murky days her tears plunge like acid rain, melting through my shiny white knight armour. For, she is the ebony queen in my chessboard of life, in position for 'checkmate' against an ivory king. In my troubled mind, the sun is like a timid yellow umbrella, hiding behind grey ashen clouds, which in clementine hues, appear like orange smoke polluting my toxic swollen lungs. And I can't breathe without her sugar lips bringing me back to life with her special scarlet kiss. Yet, I am her willing prisoner, even in absence and distance, we remain eternally chained, as spiritual word weaving lovers, prowling and howling like wolves wandering under the blue moon. Number 4