The Sun’s Revolution

A humble zephyr wafts through, 

The delicate pine, 

As a soft strain murmurs from a lapping stream, 

‘Neath the plebian cicada, 

Thrums with life, 

Condemned to hum its monotonous song,

For its existence

Eternally brief as it may be

Till death seizes it wildly by the wings.

High above, 

Amidst echinate brambles, 

The mourning dove utters a solemn few notes,

Each shimmering, 

An undulating melody that, 

Bows beneath the golden steed of the east.

The horizon is swept in a panel of chariot-gold, 

Fiery wings of honey and crimson, 

Cast down from the angels of the heavens, 

As the sun makes its royal ascent to the throne of the world,

Slowly it breathes life, 

Into the walkways of this earth. 

Kissing the lowly blades of grass in earnest, 

Blessing the elegant flowers with its,

Warm embrace.

It combs through the swaying tree branches,

And dances upon the silky, verdant leaves,

Allowing its sunbeams to pirouette endlessly in midair,

An ornate tapestry,

Of shattered  glass

Glistening with the millions of diamonds, 

That cluster, 

On sprawling limbs. 

Meekly, 

All fall as its feet, 

As it slowly subsides into the,

Cerulean blue of the velvet sky, 

Striking the world with, 

It vibrant palette of colors,

Streaked auburns and scarlets, 

Receding to the roots of this earth, 

And making its immortal descent, 

Holding its head loftily, 

As it enters the depths, 

Of infernal hell.