White

In stupefying fashion.
All tucked into
a catalyst mold.
Senses working
but not registering.
Swept in to the White

Could this be
the potion of verisimilitude?
As I'm pandered by
the appeasing instrument;
panacea soft-kill,
the breath of delight.

Virion panagyric
and the institute of
the all-crushing.
Blazing tenderness panopticon
swiftly wrapping these
lead coloured bones, weak and tired,
and stealing them in to
this rapture,
this light.

The colour of love
is not red, nor night.
No colour at all
outside of the White.