By Alex Padina
The sky in the north has turned violet.
Solar storm to blame.
The dark expanse is now painted in neon lights,
a palette from the sun's flames.
But I'm too south tonight.
Here, the only purple
lays in my bruises
and the bitter taste of excuses.
Purple is a royal colour,
or so they say.
But my night is dark
and my mornings grey.
And as I unwalk affection,
suddenly I feel the punching blade.
Alone, I fear, cometh no aid,
and there I stand
stabbed by silence,
aurora borealis non lucet,
as I bleed in violet hues.
I remember the things you all said
and mutter a silent plea.
A purple violence
consuming me.