the beekeeper.

spectre of mid-july.

the projected image on the cement wall plays forth silent actions.
soft music,
soft noises,
soft touch.
so gentle and ginger wherever hands may lay.

but they are exaggerated nonetheless, contradicting their own motives.

i still remember the cool embrace of chlorine
washing along starred arms of brown constellations
where no man had traveled before.

the term of six years had expired since elected the serene quiet one,
then naïve and spirited at the time,
the trusting child followed the hands of the tender.

and i still see the shadows,
possibly my own or one of that
actor of silent films
so personable yet amplified with their actions.

the ticking of film,
the rustling of warm air pushing through doors and half opened windows.

and still, in the middle of the day,
i recall cold stories;
fantasies of clever dragons stealing precious gold from the poor townsfolk.
gold they can never reclaim
until the dragon is struck dead.

illusions that roll in my own black garden at the stroke of the witching hour
haunt me of such distasteful fables.
years have passed since the death of the victim
but the corpse cannot speak
nor testify for the actions of the accused.

there is no way to escape
the spectre of mid-july.

a/n: OK I LIED ONE MORE,, they stop being as friggin cryptic and overly poetic as time progresses so it's less like reading heckin shakespeare and more like reading poetry ok i'm done i swear