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.