Bad Sun Rising

There is a bad sun rising. It claws over the horizon, slashing the once tranquil sky.

Fiery orange leaches out of wounds in the bright blue shroud above. It reaches forth to sour the very marrow inside these bones, replacing the blood in these veins.

As it rises, the world is rendered silent, except for that beating wardrum which insists upon life. It beats through the arteries, pulses in the neck and rings in the ears.

By the time it sets, every skeleton will bear its mark.

Powerless are we to stop it. Instead we turn to each other to nash our teeth. When there are no shadows in which to hide beneath the unbearable high noon, we'll destroy ourselves so we don't have to face our illuminated demons.

Once dawn was signaled with birds singing the safety of light, when heads could be laid upon soft pillows before the shaft of light stretched through the window.

Its high now, mercilessly casting its light on a worn landscape. And when it does finally sink, those who are left will have nothing but restless nightmares or still, black dreams, while the sleepless of us stand guard, waiting, searching for a way to stop that bad sun from rising.

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So here is a poem that is unfinished. Look at it. Look at this dribble. It's a coarse first draft. It's so coarse, it's still being mined from the earth. All the feelings I have in there, it's just so bad in this form. On one hand, it's disappointing, because the feeling I'm trying to describe is so strong

and the poem should be, too. On the other hand, it's quite ironic, because the poem is about being at unease, about a troubling sentiment that can't be solved. So you see the irony? ;)

Do you have suggestions or comments about it? Visit the contact page to let me know.