A violet smoke manifests the
room,
Arising from slumber as the
dawn approaches.
The dreams are cloaked in
haze
And extinguished as this
smoke reproaches
All that lived the night
before.
Reality awakens to hide away
The falsities of reverie,
believed
To be true, never spoken
beyond the light of day.
The fumes are fatal, as
suffocating
As truth. The truth should
never
Be a fight, but a casualty
of happiness,
The proudest of any endeavour.
Wherever this fine art may
be found,
The conjuring of dreams –
Let the truth be known to
oneself;
The smoke is not as toxic as
it seems.
