Magnetic Poetry #2

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