Fireflies and Lamplight

Purple is pain in a lingering form,

sharing secrets with anyone who cares to know.

It hisses and breathes,

Shadowing itself with cloaks of twilight.

Purple is the ripe skin of a plum,

The light lavender of a hair ribbon,

It twists and turns, pulling and bending

light to its whims.

Purple swears and purple hides,

It cries in lonely rooms and sits without feelings,

In short,

Purple is solitude.