alarming algorithm
to the faceless
names I’ve phased,
forgive the silent sunsets,
frozen in time,
and remember thin
cinnamon skylines,
how ink carved compassion
across cranberry canvas, 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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