Deep Purple

Michael Page

I can’t tell you why,

But the tattoos on my body can.

The ink on my flesh remains seen,

Even while dressed

In my translucent black.

For if I were to stain myself entirely,

Then what is left to show?

But the true color,

That my pour soul holds.

Faint to the ocular view,

No less a dimness still persists.

Solid form my black skin is,

But this pigment’s just a mist.

Atop the balcony of my existence,

Secluded high above tiny homes.

An exit sign lit up in red,

But I know not what it owns.

Potently insidious,
in its fiery redness.

It burns slow,

A dangerously hot degree.

Yet in my peripheral vision,

Empty space lingers

Distractions from decisions,

Appeal to my fingers

The frameless path feels right.

Yet as I touch bottom,

One returns to an orbital height.

A hissing suction sounds,

With the force of my feral fingers.

The glowing red bleeds about

A demon must be near us

But what it holds inside,

Is nothing as expected......

A callous metallic silver,

Presents a familiar figure

The form is not exacted.

Yet in the dark that lie

Lingers a lonely light

Parts of what was once whole

Yet seem to never die.

The shards of deep purple

Stuck inside of me.

Euphemism Campus Box 4240 Illinois State University, Normal, IL 61790-4240