Perhaps the smell that comes
from within, is more of fear
than of truth. I wish I could
guess what it means, this odour
that pervades every composition,
this scent distilled from within,
that which floats above in the sky
along with the moon and all the stars.
I see a purple globe
hanging in the sky. Far enough
to twinkle, but close enough to
touch. What is it, is it a future sun?
Or a moon from the past? Or a dream
of delicate dessert to be had
after spoonfuls of dreary poetry?
Hope, lost in its incandescent thoughts
shining through purple glass,
the perplexed memories of forever?
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