III. To Bleed a Blackened Sun

The horizon is jagged, a mouthful of glass, Where the ghosts of the seasons in silence must pass. The sky is a bruise that refuses to mend, A canvas of charcoal where all colors end. The sun is a puncture, a hole in the height, Oozing a thick and a poisonous light.

It drips on the towers, it drowns out the street, Turning the shadows to coal at our feet. I reached for the warmth, but I touched only frost, The numb, hollow sting of the things we have lost. The crows have all gathered, a cloak for the trees, Praying to gods who have fallen to knees.

“Give us the dark,” cries the wind in its flight, “For we cannot endure such a hideous light.” The stars are all sightless, like pearls in a jar, Forgetting exactly how ancient they are. The clock in the steeple has rusted to black, And the sun is a wound that is never coming back.

Drink from the darkness, and swallow the grey, For the morning has finally drifted away. You’ll wake in the embers, you’ll sleep in the soot, With the weight of the universe under your foot.