Confluence
“Forget the injuries, never forget kindness” ~ Confucious
To the faceless names I’ve phased,
forgive the silent sunsets, frozen in time,
and remember thin cinnamon skylines,
how ink carved compassion, cosmically~
when heaven rained bloodstained rhinestones..
I refuse to remember vindictive visions of virtual vultures~
slithering behind silvery screens,
awaiting vigorous vaults to electrify frail fingers,
browsing through trending triolets tangled~
in a gossamer film of sunlit sentiments,
too fluorescent for the ice-mint eyes,
refusing to retweet humane hashtags..
I choose to rise beyond malignant memes,
that wrestled aggressively;
poisoned platform hanging heavy with viral lies in the midst of an alarming algorithm.
For forgiveness isn’t an aesthetic noun
to be phrased between fervent fogs drifting across misty midnight oblivion.
It is a selfless souvenir we bestow
upon infernal estuaries,
mirroring the maleficent heart of the crimson crescent,
seeing beyond evil that ebbs and flows,
grasping topaz textures~
rippling in iridescent light.
It is in cacophonous silence,
we wipe away dust that dwells in hues of infinite darkness,
as cold is the sky carrying clouds engrossed in thrashing crescendo,
and as the evening jewels ascend to unravel hurt of history,
I search for effervescent glows, delicately shielding restless storms within my floral ink;
mercilessly drenched
in alluring aroma of withered willows~
where promises did fade like moving moonscapes,
above ripples of romantic ruins.
But like butterflies that cocoon with black-widows,
lost in a maze of lethal love, phasing fickle flowers~
I find the fluttering warmth of wildflower kindness,
sprouting hues of gratitude amidst an amethyst ambience,
reflecting runes swaying within
redolent reveries of russet rhymes.
Yet, I ponder, in my absence will you draw
dynamic stars swirling like dandelion dreams?
Would rustic strings of my bronze harp still harmonize soothing serenades,
when solitude is your only tune?
I hope like astral roses that bloom eternally,
I’ll always be remembered
for the soft colors of my poetic petals,
and these thistles and thorns,
but a mere metaphor, of memories forgotten..
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Ink Empress
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