by Nick Gisburne
She wears The Purple: armour, rimmed with rust
The power of it whispers to her mind
With this, the shade, the source, of life, of lust
To all the other colours she is blind
A sinister colossus of the past
Derided by old empires as they fell
Its esoteric energy is vast
But only gods can tame its tainted shell
Yet she, a feeble, misbegotten child
Accelerates the thunder with a glance
And those who stood against her, long reviled
She motions with a fingertip to dance
Corrupted by its elemental curse
The Purple stains her heart, her soul, and worse
