it is not the sun who is beautiful.
he is hideous, hides himself with blinding aura.
it is the shadows that he casts
that are his art, that are pretty.
with divine bliss he paints them
as they spread, like vines,
forever.
*
it is not the sun who is shining.
he is dull, lacks all luminescence.
no, it is the fire inside,
eternal ancient flame,
[not unlike the eternal liver
of hawk-eyed prometheus]
that flame which creates all earthly life
and consumes the heavenly void!
YOU ARE READING
NULL
Poetryreflections on vanity and beauty and love and fear and the cacophonous stillness of it all. © dreamsuckle 2021
