Algorithm

Buried,

But where?

Perhaps buried is insufficient.

Twinkling rhythms perk my intentions

Ego enters, in controlled strokes

This tango shimmies into awareness

The unspoken confidence no longer lingering

But dipping, swinging, hunting- full bore.

Onto swirling motions and calculated abandon.

Ha! The mixture of control and impulse is iconic

To grant a waltz of the like is to trust in the instinct

That magic be made,

In light of congruence

In light of love.

The trust, unspoken

Breeding everywhere that conscience swarms

My balance is innate, it is unfailing

It is assured.

This marriage of color

Indubitably owns my freedoms

Sweltering days bleed into taxed nights

Heeding the merit of innuendos explored.

All these unexplained sonatas

Heard faintly,

Detected subtleties, given due.

These wordless metaphors tumble out

Out of heart, Out of mind, Out of psyche.

The long murmuring soloist

Has yet to tire, bowing yes, but never breaking.

Choreographing instead, a lifetime of symmetry

Of geometric, mellifluous beauty.

Of curvaceous, uncharted mornings

And deep thumping into night.

Pouncing ideas, darting back and forth

True to the reasoning of a free spirit

There may be control, contingent upon the role given

But there too is allegiance to the pioneer inside.

Long live the individualism

Innate to my existence.