The Spectrum

The Spectrum

In my rainbow dementia
I would recognize you
on the white walls, in blue frames.

Going blank to
read your mind.

Who does not want the
beautiful end of the journey
without compromising
the thought's integrity.

A gray energy
pervades, in each cell
of the soul.

A neoclassical mystery begins
to cover the naked thigh
of Bonsai tree of life.

Night opens with
a hawkish demand to declare
the secret of purple wounds.

I had still not eaten
the bitter apple untested.