June.

I often dream of heavenly stars,

On which I lay my earnest wishes,

But those are needs left in the dark,

An infinite amount of immortal riches.

Though growing up, I saw the use,

Of the prayers my mother whispered over my head,

Her quiet voice a calming flute,

As I lay smiling on my infant bed.

My father, a man of no-nonsense,

Was inconsistent during my development years,

He trained me in the way he presumed best,

And for that, I have the most terrifying fears.

A burning house with no one alive,

Sitting in its parlour, smiling bright,

Faces pinned to the walls; I presume more than five,

My eyes grow slowly with an ethereal light.

Yes, I have the imaginations of a poet,

But none of the quiet dignity and grace,

Maybe that's why I was apparently the slowest,

The last of my peers to go past The Phase,

That period of time when teens choose to rebel,

Ignoring wise counsel and creating destruction,

Until they can see, their parents were actually right,

That the world is full of evil yet alluring seductions,

Designed to make the weak even weaker,

And the strong even stronger,

Quite an explanation, I must remark,

Though I can't help supporting it any longer.

Some people say I'm emotionally unavailable,

My friends refuse to believe in the inevitable,

I don't need your cautions; I am very well capable,

Of living my life in the best way possible.

Hence my name.

"The one God loves."

An irony.

Yes.

An irony.