that selfish sun
I'm on to your game
you are a tricky devil
For just like after a devil leaves the room and the
smell of smoke remains
you seem to continuously and stubbornly heed Thomas' advice and rage, yet silently, against your own nightly luminary demise
How can we know this?
The sun, like any politician or celebrity, is concerned with legacy
possessed by remembrance
unable to slip, with the grace of a woman too kind to tell a man she's not interested, out the back door
Look at the reddened, horror-movie face of a Scandinavian carelessly lounged at the beach too long
or sit upon an exposed rock long after dusk and feel the heat
you are no different than the impetuous 4th grade boy, angry and looking for recourse, seeking angry recompense at being left out of a plan
You must hate the moon, stealing the stage and helping mushrooms grow, even having the nerve to eclipse you on occasion to the awe of the masses
What terror you must feel as
I slip into a good Christian home in Laredo with shades, blinds, ceilings and something we invented called
the "air conditioner" condition away all the effects you have worked so hard to tirelessly have wrought on us
But you will get the last laugh
unlike I, who will one day draw a final breath and become silent
you will die, but like Diana, MJ, Neda and so many other shining stars in their own right
you will become bigger after your death
a red giant I hear they will call you
and you will wipe us all out, Earth as we know it
Many worship you, flock to your tentacles
but I'm on to your sinister game
they say knowing is half the battle
if only the other half was fighting back with poetry
