Shards of Sugar (2022 - 2023) | Poetry

11.) magnolia maroon

༒                 ༒
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༒                 ༒            
ద ༒
༒             .   ༒
༒   .        .    ᰔ
༒           ༒ ༒
༒    ༒   ᜊ  ༒ ༒ ༒
༒    ༒   ᜊ  ༒ ༒ ༒
༒ ༒   ༒  ༒ . . ༒ . . ༒
ద ద    𖦊   ꪉ   𐀔  𐃸   ద 𖦊
︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎

Unbeknownst to father,
I've lost his carnelian ring.
The one lined with silver,
the one he never wore,
the one gifted from grandmother,
from a land torn by war.

How it sat on my ring finger,
then on my index,
during precious prayer,
as a reminder of tales
I've yet to read
but are they really tales
if they were events true as blue.

Then we left for the northern winds
that blew themselves off of mountain crests.
When we came back home, and I to the place where I realised that I'd dropped it against solid ivory, fake - I couldn't find it still.
So, I prayed the prayer of the lady by the river, of Arabian tongue, wanting it to come back to me.
But it hasn't yet, still, I will not fret.

Now I've stolen one of his many prayer beads,
black in their undertones with rainbow-iridescent freckles
that capture the gaze of the human eye
like a flame to the gaze of a moth in the night.
And you'll turn it, and stare,
like I did with 'my' carnelian ring,
a reminder of divinity of grander things.

When my bones become magnolia
and my blood maroon,
I'll descend to ascend, hope destiny bring.
Flying out of fountains like a fresh spring,
shooting like comets to the heavens up above,
but falling among the stars despite aiming for such a moon,
'least it avoided the hellish scorch of the sun.

Memento mori but religiously,
value this life less,
because God has chosen us all,
to lead immortal lives in the afterlife,
in Heaven or Hell,
so for future, strive.

And the angels, they gaze upon us too,
and the demons must stay away from us forever or doom
shall reign from the skies like snow.

Expose yourself to chances of showers of integrity and righteousness that shall fall on thee,
you're welcome, most merrily do we live on through this waiting room, distracted by glowing plains and earthly affairs.

How dare they tamper with legend that is not even legend,
but time's memories grow faint like strand of hair falling from one's fingertips.

Soon, we'll have unity,
wishful to say the least.
Acceptance too, and maybe even peace.

And someday, I'll enter the marketplace, under bright tastes
that drape from the roofs,
to buy my own
carnelian ring.
If God wills.

I shouldn't really care,
not when I'll be magnolia-maroon.
And you shouldn't care either,
not when you're magnolia-maroon.
Not when the light of the moon
shines down upon you,
which it shall do soon,
lifting your soul up from your body,
into the hands of the cloak.
Then, should you beam.
Magnolia maroon, just a scar,
just a seam.
Just a dream,
just a dream.
︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎
ద ద    𖦊   ꪉ   𐀔  𐃸   ద 𖦊 ʊ
༒ ༒   ༒  ༒ . . ༒ . . ༒
༒    ༒   ᜊ  ༒ ༒ ༒
༒           ༒ ༒
༒           ༒ ༒       .        .       ༒
༒           ༒ ༒         .    .         ༒
ద ༒
༒             .   ༒
༒   .        .    ᰔ
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