Vanity, the purpled sword,
Ever present, thrusting toward
Militant, in search of game
Casting for trophy of booty’s fame.
What is the purpose of gambit’s endeavor?
This vaulting of words slick with clever,
This making the past a present of never,
Wrapping it tight, as a gift to forever.
The purple is sought that star be born
In this night of unease with fabric torn.
The murmurs awaken a day too long,
Provide this void with a text quite strong.
The sword is turned inward, let geisha await,
The word is a prop to posterity’s fate.
The cage door is opened for sacrifice.
Proclamations resound but cannot suffice.
Words do not linger in this twilight-ing time.
They fail to resonate, they fail to rhyme.
They dissipate as colors bleach,
Forgotten in the din that exponents preach.
The purpled stain may no longer teach.
It fades to a murmur that is well out of reach.
