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Hiya Sharma Poem
Here, I scribble a letter
to the rhapsodical rose,
dipping my quill in
stardust that slips
like a violet waterfall
from the tips of
white oak trees.
These marigold
orbs shine with
shimmering streaks
of sugar coated mist,
as I twist my palm
and breathe in
the lavender light
of kismet, while
tender tulips
soothingly sleep
upon the sweet seeds
of nostalgia.
O Mi Amour,
our lambent love
is but a succulent
sea full of stars,
where buttercup boats
sail in emerald
evanescence and
gentle lulls of
champagne waves
kiss those scarlet
shells of secrets,
echoing with
vibrant whale-songs.
Can you feel the
mulberry bluebells
chiming as I glide
on pistachio
plateau of promises?
Am I your soulful dynasty,
just as you are my
star-spun Prince
descended from the eden,
my healer from
charismatic realms and
my last lachrymose wish?
You're a museum
of art for the
moon-shaped chimera
of peonies painted
with hazel silk
and this chameleon
danger holds no
manifestation in
our foreign folklore,
because when
the last dewdrops
dance with sunlight,
holographic memories
of 'You and I',
will forever
remain alive in
the tamarind tales of
watercolor wildflowers.
So, when the
jinxed icicles cut
me with their
silver sword,
spring shivers
in snowy meadows
and the sun sets
along the horizon
of our ruffled story,
you'll always
hear these husky
notes of my
exotic scents
lingering in ivy
laced rains and
falling upon the
graffiti of your
ruby bones.
You'll eternally hear
celestial serenades,
singing in raspberry
language of our
incensed love which
will erase the
acetone sadness
of my unwritten absence
and those crimson
ribbons of violin's ode
will spin our saga
around those
slaty branches
of bitter destiny.
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2023
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Hiya Sharma Poem
When heinous fangs
of life drain
the amethyst glow
flowing above
infected ripples of time,
I question the
chaos that claims
serenity through
saline serenade
of sirens, composed
with midnight ink
across a mazed face
of a starless canvas,
What if these coastal
conch confettis want to
skip heartbeats with
peridot rhymes inscribed
as reefy runes?
will the cracking
waves of canorous
currents synchronize
stranded dreams
hanging on
mellow strings
of my cello soul?
For decayed dice of
destiny rolls
to swirl along
bruised blue caves
of molten bubbles
emanating dusted
crystal tears from a
charcoal oyster throne,
bejewelled with
broken ballads,
as voiceless verses
echo angst from ruthless
tentacles of poisoned
urchins, stinging
opalescent scales
that once upon a summer
sheltered and rinsed
pansy green
pigmented pain
that sketched
pantoums with
moon-laced refrains
illustrating my
delicate skies.
Breathing in
raging hailstorms,
I’m a damsel nymph
of seven merlot seas,
weaving a tapestry of
camphorous conscience,
flooded with sins
of sundrop resins and
my truth residing
between the
liquid-fire rings
of white-silk seahorses,
galloping and racing
into blind aqua-herbs;
My life is blanketed in
harbor-grey smoke,
clasped by eight
sharp swords of
erratic octopus’s oblivion,
Whist being guided
by narcissistic
nightingale’s malignant
sonnets, crisply crushing
the ribboned hope
which once blossomed
like a chartreuse folklore
in my aromatic
spine and bones.
I weep violet blood
and inshore tributaries
upon marine wildflowers,
As I gaze at the
ablaze ships,
crashing waves
and lethally jostling
cacophonous cuckoos
in the ocean-burial,
to be diluted in
pastel-blue atoms,
as none but
comet-chased
sea-maidens;
my celestial soul
carries a naive
efflorescent voice
of all the leaden hearts,
which navigated
black-tulip waters
of wanton pirates,
rephrasing regretful
harmonies and
covering morose
ashes with
constellations of
unicorn-shells
gliding in cranberry
curls of sweven tides,
surfing towards skyline of
forlorn Poseidon.
I wonder, if ravishing
rays of sunsets,
embrace the
shimmering shoreline
where emerald sea-foam
floats as pearlescent
picturesque poems,
embalmed in ivory
stains of yesteryears,
whilst we still
reminisce the monsoons
where crestfallen
eagle rays whisper
sombre tales to the
eyes of humankind,
that refuse to
speak the language
of love and light.
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2023
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Hiya Sharma Poem
I'm an ashen dove,
fading in zephyr
of wine valleys,
saturating in fog
upon enchanting hills,
draped in
grape-green silk,
where fantasies of forest,
sprout cynthia moon
of a bygone
medieval saga,
amidst heavenly
eventides,
and wailing weeds
prick my shadow,
infusing iced intentions
of the puppet's paradise~
floating in islets
of shackled bones.
My wings are
made of violet wool,
fluffed with
blueberry cotton
and stitched
with the fabric of
amethyst satin,
but as soon as
my tiptoeing feet
touch the
seafoam grass,
it stings my silent
glacial flight,
making me bleed
in chloroform-
dipped letters.
If love was a
rosy matte comet,
I would carve
pastel orchid smiles
amidst kismet-coated
cherry blossoms,
with frozen floral paints
and forgive
beige betrayals
of aqua sirens,
to which the
scents of evermore,
sweetly succumbed.
But maybe,
jasper tinted
jasmine petals,
are sewn with
poisoned thistles
whilst being
dispersed upon
the chambers of
midnight raindrops,
and those
soulful stars
in your eyes are
a mere mirage,
flourishing
false silhouettes of
a perfumed
saudade in
nocturnal negligence.
So, pardon these
bleeding metaphors
that echo sombre
sun's soliloquy in the
hazy kiss of gloom
and follow me
to the teal towers,
where this
fluorescent flesh
slumbers in enfolded
spruce leaves of
sequoia sonnets.
For, when the last petal
falls as poetry,
my soul would be
alive in wistful runes,
mourning in a
doleful decanter,
whilst eyes
would frown
in fragile promises,
wiping diplomatic
dust of dolent delusions
and knitting mists of
manipulations,
carelessly sinking~
to soil of feathered
dandelions.
Where nurtured seeds
of jade reflections,
still haven't ruptured
every pixie dust of hope,
in their life's
dormant decession,
reminisce me
as an ivory moonrise,
fluttering beyond,
dahlia chains of sunshine.
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2023
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Hiya Sharma Poem
When the
seaside sepulchre
of a kingdom,
without its queen,
is smeared with
screams of lighting,
I wish to crackle
these slivers
of silver shakle,
and devour
that consoling
taste of balsamic
twilight, which
drapes every
ritual of woe with
maleficent vows.
I wonder, if
the thievery of
of my soul, will
enhance the
crawling of
raven sun
or, bestow power
upon the baptised
mannequin,
by slaying those
jealous lilies,
floating in
summery
estuaries of
my stolen destiny.
As these sage flames
fly across the
chambers of
my castle,
petrifying those
puerile promises
of life, I seak to
be an amaranth,
rising beyond
oak skies as
I engulf those
taunting meteors that
enshroud my
solitude and
dethrone every
essence of
false light, that
consumed those
waltzing scents
of my sangria spring.
Has my heart
become a
fickle thorn,
who will keep
bleeding guidance
in moonlight or
shall this
fortnight be
traced by the last
streak of treacherous
bloodline?
Perhaps,
'The Goddess
of Thunder'
is unfurling
those flaming
rose' maidens,
who wish
to splash ebons
of roaring wreath,
across the
woeful vaults of
my ribcage,
which concealed
their silence
in sentinels of
sacrifice.
I don't assert
the want of
swathing myself
in the perfumed
petrichor of
heinous healing,
as I don't want to
quench this
rage that
is carving a
strife to
refuse my
surrender towards
this succumbing
darkness.
" I wish to be
the soul of a marionette's
pearly pupa,
satiated by fiery halo
of chrysalis,
and slowly weaving
silken hymns of
desperate hope,
desiring to emerge
from the emeralds,
that betray every eye... "
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2023
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Hiya Sharma Poem
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.
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2023
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Hiya Sharma Poem
Dear grandma,
you were my litchi s u n r i s e,
encasing stars in honeydew of h e a l i n g,
as d a w n s used to wake up
from deep s l u m b e r with
silken humming of your jasmine p r a y e r s.
Your almond eyes
have always
armoured our
rhymeless roots,
with humble rays
of light and
gentle shimmers
of philosophical
fountains,
that calmed
every lake
sterling with
fire and ice.
I evermore
reminisce those
twinkling dusks
with sanguine stories
of Hansel and Gretel,
narrated by your
angelic notes,
but, what if Gretel
had lost her
way within
cobwebs of
enchanted
cocktail woods?
Along shorelines
of Snow white
and Rose Red,
perhaps, truths
of ephemeral life,
remained unheard.
Like a timeless tree,
you've withstood
every thunderstorm,
as we sought shelter
in your oak-embrace,
then, why are
those aging skies
becoming an
embroidery of
fleeting memories
and erasing that
golden aura
of divinity from the
hibiscus temple,
homed in your essence?
I still remember
when you held
my tiny hands
in your warmth,
and helped me
trace those
pencilled butterflies
hiding behind
lily-letters of mischief,
twisting like
tickling riddles.
Oh, how your
heart would melt
like the butterscotch moon,
in swirling streams
of my silly giggles.
Remember,
when you knitted
a soft sweater
crocheted with a
patchwork of teddy bears
for this wintry toddler?
I still wrap it
around my
aching heartbeats
like a milky shawl,
midst cashmere snow.
But, mum has now
lost her doll house
of dreams,
can you please
freeze time and
scold these
decades for
stealing away
our hopes and
innocence?
I promise to
hold my tears
in an inkless saga
of metaphors,
until you've
caressed us
with the
same adoration,
from a million
comets ago.
You were the only
grand anchor
of golden guardian
for me,
like a glorious
godmother
shielding her
newborn fairy -
then why did
your eyes forsake to
search for my presence?
Evergreen warmth
of your soul
shall forever breathe
in grandeur ~
for, our sights
can never imagine
to live in the absence,
of your wisdom-realms.
Even though
you don't recall
my existence
and maybe,
have become
unfamiliar
of my name;
every year,
I will wish
for stardusts
to glaze your
horizons that
have ruffled
in wrinkles of
fainted nostalgia,
for, I will forever sleep
on the custard-
cushions of your
cherishing love.
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2024
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Hiya Sharma Poem
Philanthropic phrases of pluto sink
In my soul, a slave of lonely black
Charade, whilst butterflies flutter
In bruised heart, as pressed flowers
Grieve in between snowflake-
Pages of swan's fogged
Diary; I
Crawl upon
valleys
To
Touch
The peach
Arc of the
Sun and kiss the
Skin of polished blue
Crescent, but I drown in
Sapphire waves and garnet flames,
Carving artificial blood on
Nymph's ruby rocks; who will remember
The parched floral thoughts of a life not lived?
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2023
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Hiya Sharma Poem
When the
glacial sun slips
in softened womb
of the scarlet
spheres at dusk,
yearning for
hibernal rebirth
as a lustrous
morning star,
it radiates
golden beams
like lakes of sunshine,
flowing over
chiming starlit bells
in our hazy haven;
and I scrap
frosted flakes
off the bittersweet
pamphlets that
whisper our names
in the misty winds
of 'Us'.
Calming the
coalesced chaos
within my
infernal pulses,
his warmth drapes
this enchanted soul
with daffodil-
smudged days
of hot cocoa amidst
a wintry wonderland.
If I could bloom
like an arctic
afterglow's heart
on bare alpine trees,
I would only
choose him to be
my daylight-
perfumed violet
scent, evermore.
I can never
stroll away
from the shimmering
silverine memory,
when my muse's
trust breathed
hailstorm's poesy in
my solstitial lungs
and kissed the
fractals of a bruised
poet's spirit.
Dreaming of yuletide,
I achingly yearn
to become the
silken apricity of
those soft lyrics
that swing in his
thundersnow thoughts
and frostbitten flesh,
re-writing the jaggery saga
of twin-sanguine-lovers
in beige brushstrokes
of foggy 'We'.
Sometimes,
I forsake to
surrender and
ask for a peaceful
nod from the
'Lord of Soulmates',
can I be the
honeysuckle ink
for my beloved's
watercolor feather,
always nurturing
the snowy twists of
our tale within fate's
untold wisdom?
When I desire
to wander in
black-iced myths of
insatiable agony,
will he become
my bejeweled healer
and fight off those
sombre silhouettes
of Jack Frost's
saudade, like a samurai?
For, I take him
as the gift of
my last wish,
forever inhaling
the chilly secrets
of our lantern-
lives in my
subconscious visions,
that keep me
alive upon
crestfallen sleets
of intuitive icicles;
I want to live forever,
in his pearly eyes' abode,
which coruscates
with glossy lustre
of fireflies and
makes me flutter
my hiemal
white wings like a
spellbound fairy in
grey-orchid sonatas.
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2023
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Hiya Sharma Poem
Music is an undying
art of soul ~
an abstract eden, where,
euphonious unicorns
glide in strawberry sonatas,
amplifying rhapsody in
ballads of flight,
when fuchsia feathers
tease those
jingling breezes,
infusing breaths
in every lifeless aroma;
where I can soar
beyond the
brushstrokes
of symphonies that
planktons sing to me,
in the requiems of
forsaken pearls,
crooning with
silenced shimmers
beneath wavy blues.
Maybe,
I'm a songwriter
without words,
and my electric fingers
trace the tunes
of serene strings,
when guitars weave
a sonorous guilt
midst ruby runes
of regrets.
I wish to keep
swinging in a
cosmic cadence,
where celestial notes
choreograph
themselves in the
moonwalking
mellifluence of
lunar legacies.
I gossip with
neon nightingales,
laced with neutrinos
and compel them
to chant those
healing incantations
of love and glory,
like the forlorn
princess - Rapunzel,
desiring to feel
the glow of
familiar lanterns,
winged with
hazy syncs of
unsung yesteryears.
I wonder if,
I'm not meant
to compose
crystal canticles
in a Disney duet,
for, I believe,
I'm a soul searcher
in the flesh of
a soloist, concocting
an elixir of my
existence through
cinnamon anthems
of mystical
moonrises, as
they softly unfold,
a million
unheard tempos,
within tranquil
memoirs.
I'm the 'maiden of music'
resting as a floret on
every sepal,
yearning to become
a unique acapella
of nature,
where empathy
has an ethereal
dialect of
nurturing spirits
and tinkles
of magical waterfalls
whisper in
gentle lachrymose lulls
of our ambrosial Mother.
When the harmony
of my voice,
kisses those
ivory keys of
the heart-shaped
piano, they
echo a tipsy secret
in my sunset skin,
making me
believe ~
"I'm everywhere
in the essence,
yet nowhere
to be found...",
like the sweet
scents of
hummingbirds,
smiling behind
that first dusky star.
"In each husky hallelujah
of ribboned halts and replays,
life is a song ~
where every lyric,
phrases an ember of end,
and when passionate heartbeats
shall knit sombre medleys,
I will hum in the last 'chef-d'oeuvre'... "
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2024
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Hiya Sharma Poem
When the enchanted
jailors of life,
siezed my soul
and those
sepals unfurling
manipulative
manuscripts
ceased to
script a twinkle
above screams,
I became a
slave to my
own silence,
chained by
granite wings of
masked butterflies,
who have been
bewitched by
the first rays of the
maleficent moon.
Kneeling as
an effigy of
failure, in front
of the Dark Emperor,
I never realised
that those
depressive
tunes of the
broken piano
have carved
a caged victim
within me~
and perhaps,
the chord of
crimson chronicles
was cut too soon.
Chastised by a
lonesome vista,
I've arched myself,
along those
lunar ruins
of misty melancholy.
But, in the
cavernous caves,
this heart of lead,
bearing guns,
has searched for
its essence and
reminisced how
it has always
been a carnival
of acrylic lanterns,
wherein flamingo
flames flicker,
scented with
peony lifelines.
Muted by an
ivory irony,
when karma
crowned me
as a renowned
culprit of my own
desperate
desolation,
I've realised
how the sun was
sabotaged within
my hazy pulsations~
for, somewhere,
I chained
the harbinger
of my own
egyptian dawn,
with eagle rays
of ravenous reigns.
Perhaps, one day,
the tryst of
torment shall
be broken,
as the destiny
will bleed
in a revolution
of truths,
midst rising of a
'Marionette of miracles'
singing in her
spiritual awakening,
and swinging
upon ruby ribbons
of a magnificent mantra,
echoing ~
"Dear Lord, bestow mercy in misery,
purity in plight,
love in lachrymose tears,
and hope in hateful sighs... "
As I'll float on colourless pages,
like the last drop of divine ink,
nevermore, clinging to grief
and stifling the spirit,
rather, enlivening the silence
that shall adhere feathers of liberty,
to my winged heartbeats.
'Timeless Trinity'
breathes in me,
harnessing healing
through textures
of poetry,
encompassing
myriad secrets,
as I search
for my sunrise
within icy halos
of the third eye.
For, seeds of
rage can never
reep rainbows
amidst a
watercolor halcyon
of fleeting faith.
"Tie my soul to a kite and
stare me soar
across the skies,
as I kiss that fiery orange star,
spreading honeysuckle furs
upon lavish lawns,
'Oh, but don't
break the string
too soon - darling, breeze!'
And there, I float like
the last fickle leaf
lost in a soothing lull,
where lethal lilacs
no longer mourn in the
misery of murdered mirth..."
Copyright © Hiya Sharma | Year Posted 2024
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