Painting her thoughts

The fall is willful, not by chance or mistake
Nor is the fall remorse, yet in the absence of the fallen for
The absence just bites into my soul, It is but folly to see
When the mighty falls, one who has stood beyond all that breaks him
Yet now as fly ash, Scattered to the winds

 
In love, Maybe in worse, In torment, maybe forever
Yet again the universe has conspired to salt the wounds, it causes
Bound in such wants, beyond just mere flesh
The mind has no respite, only to witness the absence
Stark and taunting, where shall it find peace
Other than the faux pas of knowing, that I am wanted as I want

Is that a smirk, glued to the fullest of the moon
I care not if it mocks, I see no light in this endless night 

It just harrows my soul,  And she asks if this is a paraphrase
Her guts, how dare she even,

     then again who would know
Unlike most, I am just a speck, floating on winds unknown

And she waves as if it shall be solace
as if it may calm the tremors of her absence

     will it, 

        won't it
Would it matter? 

    my fall is furthered by my dying light

And she asks, who she is, An answer I don't know
Not just don't, but I cannot, For the depths are beyond my reach
And to even dare! What she thinks is hearsay, 

    Of love and feeling
        Blood or flesh, 

I brush it aside and just wave

She calls out my name, a stunted form of it
Hoping I am not all lost, Is it that she knows not that, Or is it that she hopes it isn't

then again come morning, Another day shall call upon us
She has to reach, and so have I, locked to such bonds we both are

Ah! her praise, As pretty as daisies, yet the daisies die at dusk
All they have is a day or two, and upon three they just turn to mud
The rubies, splash of red, Drops that gleam, bleeding through my pores
How I wish the soul could proxy, it bleeds, yet it is hidden deep

She says of a union beyond mere thought, yet she is a million inches apart
Is she obscure to the fact, that a heart can only crack

In every fragment, I see her face painted in swirls
Then I would stand before Van Gogh 

Ask him if his 'starry night' could take a bow 

    and leave

For this is darker, yet brighter in every phase
Oil on canvas, Brushstrokes of fingertips, her words upon my soul