I once wrote "no one will know where I have come"

Instead of "where I have gone."

As if I had already left.

And arrived.

If the deed were already done that is what I would say.

Poem: "A hidden, quaint, destructive thought"

A hidden, quaint, destructive thought,
crossed the paths I know.
And if another comes I’ll not
               discourage the way it goes.

Neither moral nor good it cried
for deliverance to my mind.
All other habits turned and vied
               to exclude my treasured find.

Curious, lost, and wonder-struck
I pulled it to the light.
My senses writhed at such ill-luck,
               this chartered lack of sight.

I dragged you forward, exhilarant thought,
and eagerly let you show.
And I’m at last no longer caught
               in all we’re supposed to know. 

Poetrying...

     I can see the purple trees
skulking past the line of leaves.
Hidden in the staggered gloom
quiet, curious colors loom.
Somber light and sunlight past
gives the bark a different cast.

    There is no pomp yet I’m aware

that other shades are lurking there.
No regal sight or lofty glance;
they lend not to circumstance.
Dimly violet, violent tones
make them gravely wooden stones.

I walk through this forest floor
with speckled sun and nothing more;
encircled ‘bout by green and growth
but once inside there isn't both.
The darkened and autumnal state
the summer cannot penetrate.

I cannot keep my outer green
as the only self that’s seen.
This grove is dyed a richer hue
and in the dyeing I die too.
But mutely paying every cost;
imprismed spirits wander lost.

So the purple last remains;
pretense leaves and nothing claims
to fill the void of colors gone,
but I know my strength is drawn
from my plum and spectral hosts.
They, once alive, are now my ghosts.

I feed from the ebbing breaths,
decay and soil and royal deaths.
Plants you see all drenched with wine
are tucked away within my mind.
This joy of green and resting leaves
shields a realm of purple trees.