You think my mind is playing tricks
when I tell you I saw a purple moon?

Like cotton candy with the face of a
distorted witch.

And you laughed out loud, bipolar am I?
moon is always sugary sweet
no one calls her a witch.

What else is she when she
hauls up waves and thoughts
that should remain in the
deepest depth
with malevolent glee dislodging my
carefully balanced ropewalk.

( Mind you, I won't fall for I am an expert ropewalker)

smug floating among whimsical clouds.
they too are purple, those insubstantial transient wisps.
delusions, too, are purple.

Once they pass you will realise
that your poet's darling is bipolar.
even schizophrenic.
why else would she hide in Hades
in the cyclic passage of time?.