A Mess to Mythology

During an air of seeming finality
the rain falls again
Where the letters of her name
form in each gentle delivery
so soft and succinct
like warm honey
against the pane.

A truth that travels the glass
transparent in a half light
where the freedom to love
gives chase to breathless aspiration
sinless and unfettered
like a silent antidote
against the pain.

and I fall in step to the song of it
and I drown in the flow of notes.
and I’m envious of those rivers
that might kiss her skin so freely
of the strokes she so adores
of pressing whispers
against the vein.

But held there in that anchored frame
wound along the lengths of a misaligned fate
and weakened by tempered passion
I demand a vacant blot of certainty
which never quite dispels
the last bitter line of defence
against the blame.