For my Sun, my God
What a deplorable sight to see:
a dejected grimace on such an
angelic face. An outcast behind
the mask—a Crown of Thorns for
a fallen King in a world
where daylight looks like Dark.
He feared the raging crowds would
come after me, guilty by association—
pitchforks, drunken limbs,
and beer cans that hold the key
to stone hearts.
His fear turned to such somber affliction,
eyes glazed with river currents
foaming with apologies.
Imagine the Sun
erupting with waterfalls
of solar flares, except
more thunderous and personal.
Meteors of glistening goblets
fell from blue skies and
down sculpted cheeks—
his medley of sapphire rivers
reflected my reaction as I witnessed
the rebirth of the Phoenix from
the soil soaked ashes, flamed by
the memory of torment,
of unrequited predilection.
I am too small to
consume the planets—or any
celestial body, really—but my
lips soak up his ember drenched
musings and swallow each
teary blaze with the intention of
compelling drought. Forest fires
annihilate and kindle the
heavens as mighty thunder
hails from such gentle
blue moons—silent screams
echoing, “The World is Yours.”
An impotent exile
within such an imploring gaze,
clutching me with the grasp
of a raven’s claws,
baited in Darkness which
now illuminates my day.
Submerged in the heat of the inferno,
I continuously swim through the blue
tides that are his eyes,
looking to me to see him as he was—
open and flowing with honesty,
flooding my heart with rain
until I can see the clarity of the stars.