The day is done for and I'm riding nightfall's stretch limo to its funeral, a slow, sunset processional. If I'm still alive tomorrow, if I'm free, it's cause I'm running through the clouds, a forest filled with smoke rings. Hate has taken everything it wants from me. I'm a butterfly with no camouflage on my wings. Whatever it is that kills us: doubt, disease, the rising rage, or the purple haze that makes us choke. In between the cliffs of a guitar riff, we recall that life is nothing more than a well-known joke.
©2023 | K.F. Hartless
Artwork: “Purple Haze” by CHRIS NIBLOCK





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