On in purple prose
He lived on in purple prose, so violet,
resting in the worship of the fondly dead,
the smoke from incense swirling in Everest gales,
each muttered didactic dissected like gospel red.
There was an epilogue, a conclusion, (of course)
as indigo irises unnatural peered, his pimpled skin,
and orange flecks caught light in the receding
glances, the crescendo of imaginary romance.
And dappled light littered the copse, sprinkled
with the memory of a million yellow petals
blotting out the heavy lawn green, smirking
under the cantankerous blue of an autumn sky.