This morning all is quiet,
Sealed with a soft kiss.
Nothing like last night's riot,
Which may've well been your abyss.
On window panes, the scratching trees
Beckon you to the night in June.
Will you eat your peas?
Or do you prefer the prune?
With eyes clear as crystal,
Pink ballet shoes pointed to the bar,
Your little fist is like a pistol -
Silenced only by the low noted guitar,
Your stare empty as you brooded.
By morning, this ordeal will be concluded.