A purple feeling blossoms in the glade.
I never saw anyone in that wood,
human or angel going down the road,
just ferns and trees sharing a secret shade.
My candle burning on my desk at home
expends its pungent flesh into the air
wresting human thought from our weak fingers.
I read from a black-bound, ergodic tome
and leak a plume of smoke from my brain-pan
like oil in a skillet, reduced too low.
My mind going wherever it would go
has made my boddy tattered, lithe, and wan.
Iām spending all my patience in the halls
where birdsong accompanies every voice that calls.