The Purple Heaven

A moonshine at 10 p.m.
behind
dense silvery clouds,
a loud voice, loudest perhaps,
like a loving touch on the face of sad brown horse
the sky reflects in whose eyes
the wind flows through whose hair.
Love. A child in the arms of youth.
Sleeping, alongside each other's worried bodies.
Come summer holidays
this heaven sinks
and swings in a purple hammock
just like the unburnt cigarette
between the depressed lips
of those soon to die and those surving mid life crisis,
depressed in a hospital gown, still shining
behind the mobile screen at half past 12 a.m.
pointing a gun without bullets
at nothing at all, staring at a world
for a couple of hours,
from an eternal distance,
anticipating the warmth of one final sunrise.