Held up
to the bohemian philosophy
that orbits her solstice
her pen on paper
reflects in blue
but in purple she paints
Misconstrued
Her war is passion
in sarong, and soliloquy
with the windmills of her mind
fireplace, fine whisky
and cigarette smoke
she\'s as slow a molecule
as molasses
Her passion is war
in the rich colored violets
portrayed by her violent thoughts
- the most intriguing -
inviting place to be
The lone writer
is a matured ever-blue
that fermented purple
with each page