How long, how lost,
how

lonely
is the day?
The sun lies recumbent,
as I do:

languishing in cold storage,
perfectly preserved
in its hollow corner
of sky.

I'm
learning
that we're not unalike.

We burn, with equal intensity
and others, love best
to gaze at us,
from the furthest,
faraway plains.

I seem,
to bring naught,
but discomfort.
Wrapped in pain
like the fading aurora bloom,
of day,

I'm a solar-powered picana

so, please...




avert your eyes.