Violet III

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She has

Always been empty

Of aught but herself

She built her own airships and

Sailed westerlies most calm

The interchange of futures

Distant marks upon her charts

And periapts of the exiled

Things she eagerly lost

That said


Her tailwinds cannot keep

For a beetle in a prism told

There is nothing to be

Without being

And so the drifting vision

Composed of stories

Near to flesh

The rudder of imagination that

Has been mainstay and reflex

She will drift to earth

And leave it

Where memory grows

Dearer than truth

Believing grass will cover sails

And new flowers bloom


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