This summer has been a mix of intoxications. Of infatuations and complications. Someone who wanted to spend the entire summer Together no longer wants to communicate past a simple "hello". Someone who i wanted to spend the entire summer with vanished after the final graduation celebration. My closest brother took one step too far off the diving board And closed his eyes before he knew someone was there to save him. The perspiration on my good friends lip caused me to turn away in fear of change and therefore abandonment. I'll leave this hometown In less than two weeks. Summer will be over and all its intoxicating breaths.
'Tis daybreak, a Summer morn; and as an orange flare Rises, it seems that the skyline burns, and billows sail Away whilst the windy currents do go on... eagerly, as The desirous, bright star parts the sky this very dawn.
That summer dawned with fire in its heart. Its eyes cried with moonlight and the dreams of the night, So soft in their whispers and their catastrophes. The sky burned bright with vivacity redder than the earth And the drums of war rang out.
The red sprung forth in rivers on her cheeks As she watched the men go silently into the sun; Their eyes gleamed with glory and the soles of their shoes With some sort of victory They might soon be able to grasp between their fingertips.
And too, their bodies would be christened With the sinuous springs of scarlet There would be no hands with palms of tenderness To wipe the salty tears from their bloodstained eyes So that they may see the glorious fields of wheat, And flowers (heads pointed to the sun)- So that they may have a last glimpse of beauty On a summer morn
When the pitter pat of your mouse heartbeat fades utterly away As easily and distinctly as throes of thunder in the stormy distance, I may go - in melancholy, there will be nothing else to do or say.
And once the rains froth on warm cement and the winds sashay Across the treetops, and of you there is a startling absence, I will know the pitter pat of your mouse heartbeat faded away.
It will sting, surely, to wake up every Monday through Sunday Knowing you are not here, but I will remember your brilliance And I may go - in melancholy, there is nothing else to do or say.
Still, the years will fly by and someday my mind may neglect to replay Those memories of importance, and I will forget your presence, Even as the pitter pat of your mouse heartbeat has faded away.
Then the world will move on and storms will return. In the midst of the fray I will arrive, on the way to my own departure, a mind full of grievances. I may go anyway - in melancholy, there can be nothing else to do or say.
And while there may be some last moment of frenzied grief, a ray Will eventually split the clouds open; of you, I will recall some semblance, And the pitter pat of your mouse heartbeat will roar, not fade away. Then, finally, I will go - in lieu of melancholy, there will be much to do and say.
