Purple Haze

Consumed in the firey gaze Of anger, in the purple haze Of hatred, prisoner to the ever growing Feeling, and still never knowing Where it stops, or whence it ends. Is it fact, or does it bend The truths I seek, and all I feel I need to have to make it real? I do not know, I figure not Of this, or if there is a plot To reality, or life itself, As I sit here upon my shelf, Wondering if I would ever find The light, so I can then unwind, Or if I'll stay here, ever phased By my hatred, my purple haze. [Glen Passman, 8th December 1998]

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