Oh sun. Poor sun.

In the night are things that flood the mind

Which cannot do so in light

There are things beside the darkness bright

That critter on out of sight

In the dimness a form protrudes

Of lovers of old

Of age and sickness

Of Murder and a feast

Things creeping, creeping on

Like bedbugs meal delights

And crawling on the planets face

Some insects chew upon the human race

Out of time

They’ve been displaced of meaning

Rising high into night’s sky Diana rises all aglow

And perches herself upon the night ready for the hunt

The kill.

There in the distance little and mother bear stroll on

Orion readies himself to strike a blow

Perseid showers o’er

Decking each star with a bit of rain

And love and some warm gaze

As my eyeballs peer into the black

Discerning every this from every that

Wherein there hides a lullaby that screams and shrieks with each moon’s turning there is no more revolution here there is so seldom yearning requited in the style of lover’s embrace the sun gains no gain from burning.  There is such little rewards an orb might get from giving all that it’s giving.  Wishing it was the way of the world does little else but wishing, in closed systems there are not refrains to choose from little beats that stand on feet of what they’re birthing.  The moon may stay about it’s orbit as long as it orbits about ourselves, the earth may turn and gain in turn much from all these tides and turning but sun, dear sun or Sol as you’re called Apollo dear lord, why what hath you netted from netting a plane such as this within your nets?oh sun. Poor sun.


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