Junesong Provision

Proclamation of such beauty.
When smiles like windows open shine a mirror to her soul.
Awakened is summer's brightness and June is the solstice song.
For to sing a greater wonder would shatter that window into a thousand shards of iridescent melancholy.

Do not be so saddened
When tear-streaked words of crimson phrases ignite, none but a coal-hearted fool could bear it.

I cannot.

'Tis only a statement, borne of shadowed loves
Woe that it should ever emerge into the light.

"Megalomanious indeed, this fool's misdeed of intent.
Oh, how to remove this riven stake once my actions have left it warped and bent."
She has spoken a wondrous gathering unto the gallery of mine ears.

If only she would speak again, allow the sinuous sound of her golden voice to reach this receptacle of her passionate prose.
But instead her words are razor-edged, laced in anger
A deepening cut against the soft flesh of my wrists.

Does she know me?

I think not. For a heavenly being from the upper echelon of the
magnanimous stratosphere could never lower herself to hear mine words,
nor heed mine advice.
I am consumed by her lack of faith.

In herself.

Forget thyself in the throes of another, He is but a caricatured portrait in the moon's somber soliloquy anyway.

And who's heart deserves to be a candle?
Subject to the whims of an uncaring breath.

Not yours. Nor mine.

This is why I suffer in mine abject absence, to stand upon this 10th floor balcony and repeat the stark nakedness of your words.

In silence.
In retrospect.

When even heartfelt apologies could not redeem your trust, I still hope you do not rescind to his hollow umbrage. His fallow words impotently bellow a smokescreen of deceit.
Clear it away.

The sugar cube melts into the swirling haze of my absinthe induced reverie.
The green fairy makeshift image of your fair visage, intertwined with the
wax hardened memories of a letter unsent.
Hastily retrieved.

Burned.Blackened.Buried
Beneath the ancient fireplace ashes.
Scattered to the wind like every sentance ever uttered to your divine face.

In the painting.

So I will sing instead this song of June.
This last provision to the operatic saga of one.final.glance
Into the stained-glass window streaked with acidic hopes and folly.
Waiting until it...

B.u.r.s.t.s...