Withering through the seasons, I behold the love that echoes in me,
Through the crevices of my ephemeral soul, I ink the hues of my skin in the depths of my poetry
Laughing in its mirth as gallant as it echoes through my veins,
Love is an amorous sin that gallops through the brink of sanity in its compulsion I forge to be insane

The tales of love that bind you for eternity, a narrative that finds its truce,
With the mortal quest for togetherness, one finds her ends cut too loose.
My mother disguises herself under the bounties of a rose, one that loves to deep,
Signifying her beauty in the vows of forever, she often tells me the sacrifices she made,
For the virtue of love, she was meant to keep.

Through the rage of generational curses, I wage a war that demands slaughter.
Of the age-old tales of oppression, like a gladiolus I behold valour,
Embracing the notion of not being my dad’s princess, but my father’s daughter.
I am the sunflower that radiates hope and I am the wildflower that grows through the storm,
Too bold to be meek and too mighty to be a piece of fragileness that fits the norm.

Maybe love finds me as a lotus when my sister smiles in the cacophony of benevolent rays,
Dripping in the warmth of conversational flair, joy in its truest essence finds its way.
I have heard syllables of the amorous glance recorded through the despise of thin air,
Of grandiose schemes of exquisite feats, one promises for their lover to dare.

In its wisdom of growing older, I wither in its echoes that glare within me
I yearn to be a lover’s muse, a dream that they immerse in the depths of their poetry.
Maybe love surrounds me, in the sonder of the clan that preaches the promises I am bound to keep,
To live and let live is to find true reverence, or maybe it is just a lie tell myself at night,
As I dive deeper under the waters of sleep?

.    .    .