The Man Who Lived on the Sun

Posted: December 12, 2013 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

My golden house is adorned with flames,

it licks itself with them, wistfully cleaning

blemishes which are not there.

Fires rise and crackle.

The whole cacophony, the whole sound

of these flames could timid a lion.

Even though I among these precious metals-

orange brighter than any morning,

red deeper and more passionate than a heartbeat

or a kiss, I find myself

looking out at the worlds between the flames.

How minuscule they are-

a yellow thumb, a dark brown eye,

a fleck of glowing white,

pinpricks…

I’m afraid I know nothing else

than shades of fire

and my own face.

Indeed, there are others glowing,

held in comfort of white embers

and enthused by the ceaseless dancing of flames,

but I find myself not with vigor of flame,

but with emptiness, that same emptiness

as the black reaching

between those worlds and specks of light, unifying us,

and separating us

all the same.

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