Casualty

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.