Amaranthine Dream

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Amaranthine Dream a poem By Ashley Fay

A limitless lovely bleeds indigo flawless.

An inhalation of beatitude, I dawn the bound of the infinite.

I am the sizeable singular,

everlasting nectar forgotten.

A whiteness and a shadow,

I blaze the swelling spell.

I am the cipher and the cirrus, illuminated forever.

The galaxy is my half-mirror.

They are a likeness of a likeness of a likeness. They are the fractal of a beam that I colored into mind.

Once, they wrought me wilted bile and rooted poison through my flesh. I hemorrhaged carcassed hope.

I died twice, and then again, and then a thousand times more, under the rolling water.

Reborn— I am a giggling nightfall tickling the bridge. I love to dare-dance against the verge.

Finger-wrapped, batted-lashed, I can vanish to a welcomed nothing. I can mangle them over the precipice and command them.

Go ahead pluck me, I can feel your decaying wounds—no roots.

I am lilies and levity, lilacs and laughter. I alone mount the cliffs of Lebanon.

Drown me, I am the mystery and taller. You are the empty vessel.

Split me and save my petals to the pages. You are still a stellar lonely.

I bet you have to peel back your own flesh, just to find yourself in a mirror.

So pull me to a purple and scratch at my shimmering romance. This is my garden and you are my word.

Without me, you could not field, nor flower, nor fern. Don’t forget my darling dandelion, I am always a budded blossom breaking.

I am the turning sky and you are the bending broken.

Hallowed are the hollow kings; I do not fault these sunken stars.

All they ever wanted was to find their reflection rhymed with their bright. Their bellies rumble for butterflies but they terror at the trace.

They pride and part plumes just to feel them wither, because we are their prisms and they fear the moon to love them on the mouth.

What armies this artifice? Why dig graves for geraniums?

I have seen the relinquished anoint their daughters with jewels before slaughter, while the regretful bestow the blade.

But even still, they are all just seeds dying to fruit. The shattered still chase the springing sun and it still finds them flowing.

On one rare morning, revelation will crumble the hallowed, and they will trade their thrones for thistles.

Until then, color yourself a magnificence. Echo an impeccable glittering endless.

Because when they have finally been kindled, they will see, that we are all only visions in an amaranthine dream.

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