Purple storms rose above the moon
like a lick of mist alone in a blue sky,
swimming through the collapse of imagination.
My lonely, bitter grave after dark
always blowing sweet unseen death.
Lathering honey on my ugly language
I sing "let no half truth be a lie,"
By raw darkness within a friend
trudging between dawn and dusk.
Yet you leave me a sordid mess
of sad dreams and languid pain.
You rose through confusion above me.
But I live in rocky waters
and go down like those in power.
7/1/16