The Cult of Blackened Hearts
So much to say without walls to hear them
So I guess I’ll scrape out the insides of my heart
And smear them on this pixelated paper.
You see this font?
Imagine it red like blood from stained hands,
Proffered like the preferred ink pad of some sacrilegious cult of blackened hearts.
You see the hearts were once red.
That same hue of passion and lust and hurt and love.
A hot, fiery ember made safe by an ivory cage.
But like all poachers put out light for ivory, the fires are put out and our bones are stolen.
Leaving us spineless, hopeless and charred.
And so the embers become post-coals, weakened and scattered to the winds with a single touch.
There’s hope for me yet, while these words are still red.