burgundy bliss

i g n o r a n c e~ is a rhyme without soul an art of f a d i n g into oblivion... like crestfallen tulips twirling through tethered rays in the midst of seething sighs... and I am more than the blazing thorn of a phoenix rose moon,  infused in scarlet elixirs of a sorcerous twilight, weaving l o v e in golden glows amidst double-flamed scales burning my velvety h e a r t... pondering, would you be the galactic gardener that waters   my weathered spirit when I am but  a mere memento~  tangled in          vindictive vines of vanity, for I have a voice I sing in garnet grace... if tomorrow you feel my heartbeat between vintage verses of a scentless sonnet long forgotten, and e r a s e d remember, I am the silk and sage and the untamable silhouette of a balmy blossom that refuses to breathe in the ossuary of perished petals,       and wrinkled dreams, ostracized by chauvinistic thistles and unpolished ink pricking the soft stems facing cyclones of greed c i r c l i n g in sheer arrogance....   tonight I trace the hyacinth heat of unwavering zest,      drawing sanguine  smoke of love         with winged gossamer tied to the redolent roots     of unblemished skylines while crocheting        petrichor promises unto the backbone of         a nocturnal garden, where handmade  wreaths of hope and faith feel softer than lunar light~  as this heart resembles a maternal bouquet of burgundy b l i s s ... a woman who heeds not misogynistic mantras ...