Afterthought 136—Purple Fugue

Posted in sonnet by maggie on 2015/03/26

Our morning's road won't reach this night again
until we've fancied all the deaths she's died
to turn our own.  So say what stars she spied
that lured her back the second time, then when
we catch up, violet darkness she's lain in
will bring us to her, carry us inside
her far horizons. Algol, be our guide
to sleep in her embrace of peaceful pain.

Let's meet back home before midwinter's freeze
breaks us apart, survivors of the purge
of other beings deemed too worthless to keep,
our new moon promising its waking sleep
- like love - won't try to quit. Her visions surge
like hot seed seeking fertile void to seize.

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