Taught Me Purple

Google.

ok nevermind found it in a book

...google will go faster than a book +_+

She wrote a poem?

Copyright©2004 -- Zyxpsilon (already published in Anthology, btw)...

Loops of the spiral

This minute doesn't last.
Fact is, as soon as a real needle hits the
ground, it has and will have bounced back where
it is.
Coincidently or eternally.
Gravity knocks time forward immediately after
any motion has had irrational effects on your
previous perception of a reality.
Later on, before it even starts, a chaos has
settled in a loop bound to recycle a physical
representation of everything within your reach.
Collapsing in the present, all objects of a
past are spiraling to a future which has yet to
begin.
Contradicting every laws of a magic world
called conscience until it snaps again like it
was meant to be.
In a limitless second of nothingness.
Curving at you.
Forever and never.

And an entire year later, this...

Crypto Jigsaw

Perpendicular to a slice of wood
isn't the flaw that metal cuts.
In this residual growth of mills
and forest, a wall of spruce
stands up as defiant time to
the wind or dark valleys.
On the land of the crypts that
rain captures for a leaf to
absorb, shiver, shift and transform.
When the jigsaw edge touches
those, it's whispering a lost good.
To a taller ground above the roots.
Underneath the flesh of some trees
lives a world of days that
saw thunder and rays.
If it could listen to the smallest
of an axe or the hands holding food,
lumber would possibly yell back
spare me and the rest.
To remain vertical and raw as all once stood.

Wax melts thick

Warmth as it should, cold in drips
and burnt by time.
Thicker than coats of arctic winds
glooming aside these lights.
Everlasting liquids that constantly sift
through air and fire induced blue
under yellow heat.
The rope of a stick keeps twisting that
single funnel of carbonic fumes.
Consuming matter slick enough to melt
before vanishing in glows
of softness or lightness.
Until it has bent the fabric
of smell and vision.
Of our sickness and timelessness.
Above tips burning although slowing
the inevitable absence of a candle.
Tougher and brighter than a brick.
Still as it could, hot and yet adrift in time.
Not wax but rather glimpses of a trick.

Ok, it's official. I don't get poetry .

Or maybe your a poet
And you just don't know it.

It's THAT hard to give some words various meanings however obedient to conventional literature!

Fixed. 

I've got just the right stuff for a permanent fix...

Five hands of a finger

Of flowing cells deteriorating into harder nails
out of reach within a distance touched.
Flesh elapsed or bent to expand until it fails
to search for some balance enforced.
This burst of a reflex on muscle rails
capturing an object to crush it under pressure.
From the power of five distributed by one.
Pointing to the far trails,
though close enough to indicate a beach.
Indexed and thumbed,
even ringed.
The assembly of dexterity holds pens and peach.
Dancing by group of tens,
fisting anger,
handing over help,
pouring water in a pail.
Of a finger lonely without which
hands wouldn't exit jails.
Joined and wristed,
even numbered.

Ok, NOW you're scaring me!