Time and lavender do not heal
your marks like a signature at my door.
My plastic skin splits beneath flaking
layers of paint. Wind and rain penetrate
my openings. No one hears the alarm
and soon decay sets in. The floor
sags underfoot, the walls are festooned
with festive mildew. What goes around
comes around. Time is a serpent biting
its tail, a palimpsest. If I close my eyes
real tight I see you running, a flash
of orange on green, a broken traffic light.
The Purple Hermit 