As the stars burn out in the cold sky, the stories we write are not truly stories we write. The plans we create, the stars on which we hang such hopes, are only to be crafted by the wish of the other. The stories unfold and so quickly fold up again, the lock and key of great space to be encrypted no more within the chambers of a longing soul. The alchemical patterns and the circles of space are not in fact to be complete after all.
June spoke to me for years through special stares, she hung a light in her window from miles upon miles away. In her light I danced and waited for the call, the time, the key to finally unlock the secrets of her heart. What is time but merely numbers arranged in symmetrical patterns and I, in Silver symbolism and the power of poetry, thought to rearrange the numbers in patterns of my own time, the time when June would descend from her stars of knowing unknowing to complete the mythical mysteries of timing’s poetry.
Only it is June who in turn played with the patterns and called out through her own time, her own heart, though her heart, I know, is compromised by convenience. And so in a flash of radiance from the sky, the stars fade out, the moon glows no longer with want, but now just glows afar. The shadows eclipse the words of forever and in the nighttime glisten of a pale glow, June dies not in my arms, not in the arms of poetry, but in the arms of time and circumstance.
And so the light dies, but so the days to go.