Ode to Sun(s)

Enormous

globe of fire,

pearl of the eternal

fuel of Life, you rise

and shatter the black glass,

omnipotent presence of twilight;

you refuse to be swallowed

by Time

for more than a day. 

Safely, I can say

that your empire is rage

at what cannot be done; verily,

your domain is the irreverent cage

when fetters are the kindle

used to light our temporal sky

and bring to its knees

such pain of nothing

had. O

stark sphere of power,

rich ring, marble of marvellous

she who is heroine of broken

we who wish

upon you; O

star who tinges with blood

the ribs and backs of clouds,

who is the ensign of Kings,

presiding over oceans

with gold flood pervasive

flowing over

we who dream; O

circlet’s fill of victory,

we follow you

with the boundless failure

of such as are delicate-

strong, are

decidedly flawed

and destined to find

inside the disheartening mire of mistakes

that a perfect mess like us

deserves depiction

such as yours, O

regular resurrection,

pondering paintsmith,

damsel destroying with Godly Art

this distress of lost life

that is ours, O

she who speaks

of us, on our behalf,

princess of purity, poise,

yet alchemy's alloy: Age

abandoning Love's lullaby of loss…

 

When Night arrives to take me

back, who will be there

just to defend

me, fend off the webs

of that regret of we

who are so rent? Will it be you,

O Sun? Will you come

through to my aid in the darkest of hours,

when this untenable history that is mine

swells into an anthem

that cannot be muted, destroyed,

no, only transmuted

into a musical score of your choice, Sun,

should you choose to save my Soul

from plunge of sticky water

tugging at my body, cold

manipulation of what carries me

to capsize, to go under, die,

drowned in the silk softness

of this kingdom of spiders: anxiety,

father of the depressed

who struggle to be, stay

brave against such tidal oppress of

our rebellion of Love

amidst this thrash and throng of hollow,

void and clutching

kill of much—Who is to say

I shall not be undone

when Night arrives to take me

back

into myself,

statue but I'd rather

be lodged into Hell.

 

Lovestruck

humankind: We are fine filaments

in this magnificence of quiet, of

this boisterous abyss, housing us all

revolutionary riots of sound

going out like lightbulbs popped

but we are always spectacular

Suns and our tomorrow unborn

shall see us rise out of the sea

of Death

once claimed our lives, but:

No, we shall survive Time more.

06/22/2016

en route to Atlanta

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada