Violet Prose.
	by Ian Turner <jjackson@wpine.com>


     If Hell thrives on pain, demons feast tonight.
I need not shed a tear,
	for the wind wails like well-paid mourners,
		and the sky weeps rivers.
Memories march in swirling shards,
	shattered like fallen glass,
		and slicing sharp and deep.
Our bonds are broken, you follow the sun's spark,
	and I too am free, to dwell alone in the dark.
We had clipped our wings to walk together,
	and now we can fly again,
            alone forever.