Still,
like a morning breath,
one stood.
Rays of purple,
arose over skin.
A familiar coloring,
as the moon was birthed from the night sky,
and the purple transformed black.
Sitting still in one's skin,
an internal scream,
and shattered self promises.
Left too little,
to be blossomed beautiful,
once more.

Unmute.
And not an uncommon sight,
a child sits in a solitary corner,
eyes salted as he witnesses the screams,
of his parents choke the air.
Not much sense is made,
in blank silence.
Not much sense is made,
in unharmed skin.

They laugh.
They sigh.
They let the wind blow away,
the precious moments of stability.
What becomes superior to it?
The force,
which converts one's ego,
to harm another.
And develops a promise,
that is a new shade of purple..
a perfect tear to his eye,
another breath struggling to be taken.