生紫 pourpre vivant

in the starless night sky when I walked home from convenient store,
there is a tint of pourpre vivant in the heaven I spotted
where I assume there is the usual nimbus-cloud, though now she has lost her ring of radiance, and is in hiding. 
like a pretending child of night, hiding from parents,
lying under some bed or in the wardrobe
until she is so still like a freshly interred in a coffin,
hiding now, as a new falsely pronounced death among the Empire of the dead

Alas. children and their perverse love for the still, unchanging things…
though she left the heaven when my eye wandered; I scared her away with my smart thoughts
is the colour purple her death-shroud
 she left behind like a piece of loincloth
like what a paramour does in a hurry if the husband were to be home all of a sudden? alack,
so was I being cheated by the reckonner in the convenient store?

O stigma without purpose, quiet turning the pulley
of the truth's well. a monk must be patient in drawing water
athirst, from fountain of Earth.
the bucket is empty but sea-crusted on the bottom
from the inside and outside. the sea does not exist.
the mountain is not far, seeing that safe haven
that had been the City's church, abbey and confessional of yore, but now remains
a sealed tomb waiting for its turn for resurrection too
this sight of the monastery upon the mountain crest
being mystically devided again by the invisible, immortal clouds; deep, unreflective purple
of mountainous darkness; this must be what it looks like 2000 years ago, atop a hill overlooking the cool, shadowy glen
at that fateful night in the Orient…
(which is to say too selfish is the ever-present Silence
who did not tell the story of Demystification of the Eternal mountain even after 2000 years)
I can see clearly the Man waiting his turn coldly supine, hasty and lusty enwrapped only with purple cloth of grave-moth
in the hollow of his coffin, beneath the mounded tomb
eyes closed but seeing, that freezing glare

there is a small fire red, dancing on the tallowed wick of a candlestick 

fixed to the ceiling, the sole illumination for the corporal deceased

that is but a torchbug in the permanent, all-intrusive darkness of eternal drukenness, from the spirit of sad and sour grapes

if eternity has purpose, 
the cold, seeing death clad in pourpre vivant
savage, martyr or Imperator
will man see now that his body is lain bare when entombed
to the elemental fury of the blackest sky;
aflame, his tomb upon the mountain crest
(smelling sulphuric from the lightning,
and wet and soft from the feminine water and air)
with quickening pulses always striking the slumbering hearts; "let rise!"
then from the gigantic sephulchre of black night atop the mountain; the lid, let it move;
starless, lit only by torches and feeble locust-like swarm of viridian moonlight

a Titan of two-thousand year an Aeon, leap Ye out of the canopy of stone!
borrowing profound dead thinking and dead tongue of fair Europe; its State
may the once lost ancient dead of river-valley under the stone heaven rise.
and thus walk onwards the army of the sanctified dead, all rejoicing
yelling; does love for the sculpted expired forms and maimed sizes
awaken us with love from beasts to murdering animals? but follow the Sign.
and under His mighty strides across the Eternal mountains of Western, Eastern and Oriental men; let be, so let be that
death remains as a servant in the crypt being held cold and damned, let bones reflect wit's light;
and the Lord--Human walketh as a Master against the Earth's own dying pace.
starless, fearless, thoughtless.
neither stone-hewn goer-less temple nor the concrete-built celestial observatory 
that fell into disuse
the dead darkness of the night has for Him in store purpose---
pourpre vivant, purple alive. 
the prophet is dead, the living purple hero-King does as he pleases.
no longer would he claim heirship and dowry from the kingdom above, 
if there are things more beauteous and effulgent than all the heavens beneath the earth in Hell.
which he has now the right to mine as he will, friend.
when you go a monastery on the mountaintop, bring with you pickaxes instead of a camera or Vulgate cash.