Wicked April
A poem
The world flourished before my senses and the dainty pleasures of the planet wore the resplendence of gold. I swam in uncharted, abysmal passions and the windows of my soul welcomed those frivolities that abound.
I offered the earth an energetic piece of me and soared beyond the pinnacles of ecstasy and reason. Rich, evergreen meadows gave my feet soft, cuddly therapies as I caressed careless winds that were pleased to wrap me all around.
My eyes saw profits like the treasuries of firm nations and my teeming conglomerates expanded the girth of my purse. The pomposity of my soul grew in leaps and bounds so I sat with an overweening pride and with a hedge guarding regrets and grief.
I took my heart to the foremost quarters of Paradise to frolic and rummage in luxurious dust. Likewise, I saw the splendour of Heaven alight on my shoulders as the sceptre of divinity coronated me king.
Laws of despondency and apprehension were abolished in the vicinities of my thoughts so I was carefree to rule my entire moments. I tucked the stem of my pleasures into the cream of delight and was wet with the torrential rain of rhapsody.
I saw the fruitfulness of my progeny and the multiplicity of an abundant future. Promises were draped in the royalty of purple till the bad claws of ruthless demons scribbled the language of doom.
Now the cessation of joy is fast-tracked with long strides and I’m harpooned to bleed gushing rivers of sensitivity. I’m acquainted with the cruelty of a month and a savagery that utterly abhors repentance.
Sadly, I spin and toss in the eye of a vicious storm — trapped in an unforgiving epicentre. Those landscapes that blossomed with bliss now wear the barrenness of parched, arid deserts.
The perspective of my vision is open to the portrayal of horror as I tumble from a lofty apex to a cesspool written with the filth of absolute squalor. I’ve seen the implosion of my dreams and the pollution of many rosy, ebullient hopes.
I crave the exigency of restoration but the punitive clouds of affliction have rooted their undying permanence. The fourth month is symbolic of many things but of warmth and true tenderness, yet it’s certain to wear the heinous, wrathful identity of a wicked April.
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